


The Company He Keeps

by wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff



Series: Fire and Water [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Divorced Lestrade, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Melodrama, No John till the end, POV Lestrade, Paternal Lestrade, Pre-A Study in Pink, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but earlier than in canon, but not for a while, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff/pseuds/wibblywobblytimeywimeystuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At his lowest point, John Watson met Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock saved him. At Sherlock's lowest point, he met Greg Lestrade. And they saved each other.</p><p>This is how Greg met Sherlock, how he met Mycroft, and how he became important to them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sergeant and the Junkie

_“A man is known by the company he keeps.”_

_-Aesop_

 

* * *

 

 

Greg jumped and looked around when someone knocked on his cubicle wall.  Over his shoulder, the brown eyes of Detective Gregson looked at him curiously.  A quick glance out the window told Greg the sun had already set.  This time of year, that meant it had to be well past nine.  He hadn’t even noticed the office empty out, he was so absorbed in the latest information on a suspected Cocaine dealer.  His face crumpled into a grimace.  Gregson always hated it when she felt like anyone on her staff was overworking himself.

“You’re not on nightshift tonight.  Wouldn’t you rather be home, Lestrade?”  She asked.

“Ah, yeah.”  Greg rubbed the back of his neck.  “Time got away from me a bit.”

She sighed.  “Just as well.  I need to speak with you anyway.”  The DI leaned her hip on his desk.

Damn.  What had he done this time?

“Listen,” Gregson started.  “Lewis is being promoted to DI.  With his experience, they’re moving him over to the organized crime branch, so we’re short a team lead now.  What do you say?”

“Me?  Don’t you have to be a Sergeant to be a team lead?”  Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?  I wasn’t expecting a promotion for at least another year!”

“You’re the best Constable I’ve got.  You take your job seriously, – frankly, maybe a little too seriously – and the other officers respect you.  I don’t doubt that you can handle it.”  She said.

“Wow.  Yeah, thanks.”

“Great.  I’ll put the paperwork in tomorrow.  If I push we can make everything official by the beginning of next week.  Maybe by then you’ll be ready to take the team out on a bust.”  Gregson stood and made her way out of the office.

Greg laughed nervously, but couldn’t manage to wipe the grin from his face.  Sergeant was only one step below Detective.  If all went well, he could make DI in the next five years.  This was a dream come true.  Leading a team though…  That was management.  A whole new skill set was required to deal with people problems.  Greg just hoped he was up to the challenge.

 

* * *

 

Rain pounded the windshield of the police cruiser, obscuring Greg’s view of the dilapidated tenements outside.  He’d been officially promoted today.  This bust was his first test as a Sergeant, and he needed it to go well.  Constable Donovan sat beside him in the passenger seat looking grim as usual while she surveyed the scene.  The tenements were half falling apart.  A fairly typical place to find drug dens, but something about the atmosphere just seemed more ominous than usual.  Perhaps it was the occasional flash of lightning, showering the buildings in fractured light.  Perhaps it was what Greg was expecting to find inside.

The evidence all pointed in the same direction in this case.  Cocaine.  And if reports could be believed, the user wasn’t older than 19.  Just a kid.  God, Greg hated it when it was a kid.  Still, this should be straightforward.  The users were always easier to deal with than the dealers, and with luck, this particular kid would be frightened.  A good scare with the law might get him into rehab or make him turn in his dealer.  Or both.  Wouldn’t that be a bloody good day?

“Ready, sir?”  Donovan asked.

“Let’s go.”  Greg pushed the car door open and started slowly for the entrance.  He saw four other officers climb out of cars and follow him, careful to watch all sides.

The door was locked when Greg rattled the handle, but the lock gave easily when he shouldered it, years of neglect, rust, and rot failing to hold the door in place.  Greg gestured the team to begin searching the first floor, and they fanned out silently around him.  A rickety set of stairs led to a darkened second floor.  With the team occupied on the first floor search, Greg started up the stairs cautiously.  At the top, he opened the first door he came across.

On a mattress in the middle of the floor, with his fingers steepled under his chin, lay the young man in question.  Greg couldn’t help but think that this man did not look like a typical drug user.  He was thin, to be sure, but he was shy of emaciated.  Dark curls created a messy halo around his head, but they weren’t matted.  He was clean, even if the apartment wasn’t.  His clothes were obviously tailored, and his dark eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling.  But most disconcertingly, he was perfectly still.  He didn’t twitch as Greg approached slowly.  He might have been dead if it weren’t for the regular whisper of breath emanating from him.

“Hello?  Are you okay?”  Greg asked.  When no answer was forthcoming, Greg continued.  “We have a warrant to search this place for cocaine.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

The lack of response made Greg suddenly frightened.  The entire situation seemed unnatural.  Greg couldn’t even tell if the kid was high.  He knelt beside the mattress and reached to take a pulse.

Before his hand made contact however, the young man sat up and seized Greg’s wrist.  Sitting on the mattress, he loomed over Greg, pressing his face far too close.  Greg realized that those eyes, which he had taken to be dark from a distance, were really a pale grey obscured by dilated pupils.  Through the young man’s palm, Greg could feel a racing pulse.  This kid was high.  No doubt.

“Listen, I’m-“  Greg was interrupted by a shockingly deep voice.  It took a moment for Greg to comprehend that that baritone voice was coming from the same, thin man in front of him.

“Here to help?  I doubt it.  You’re here to arrest me for drug possession and use.  You haven’t even realized the extent of the crime yet.  You aren’t here to help me.  Nor could you, even if you wanted to.”

Greg’s eyes left the kid’s face and scanned the room for the first time.  It looked less like a makeshift drug factory, and more like a university chemistry lab.  The equipment was high-end and clearly meant for more noble purposes than refining cocaine.  Still, it would do the job.  This child wasn’t just using cocaine, he was making it.  Though how he could be cognizant enough to work while he was high, Greg had no idea.  High people made mistakes, and when it came to drugs, mistakes could cost lives.

This was serious.  It was no longer a simple matter of scaring someone straight.  Drug sources had to be removed.  Quickly.

Greg wrenched his wrist free and twisted the kid’s arm behind his back.  He was handcuffed before any of the team made it up the stairs.

“I’m arresting you for the manufacture and use of an illegal substance.  You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”  Greg started walking his prisoner down the stairs.  “Get this place locked down, and get forensics out here.  Donovan’s in charge till I get back.”

Outside, Greg walked the handcuffed young man through the still pouring rain.  He placed his hand on the kid’s curls before pressing him into the back seat of a squad car and climbing in the driver’s seat himself.  He flicked the lights on and checked the mirrors before pulling into traffic.

A sigh from the back seat caught Greg’s ear.  “Something wrong?”

“Getting arrested.  How dull.”

Greg looked in the rearview to see Grey eyes rolling.  “What’s your name anyway, kid?”  Silence greeted Greg’s question.  Another quick glance in the mirror told Greg that his passenger had taken to gazing out the window pensively.  “You might as well tell me.  It’s really not difficult to get an ID on a living person, especially when they’re already in police custody.”

“Yes, but why make your job any easier?”  The response was peevish.

“Because your life is in my hands right now.  I can decide how much I want to question you, whether I want to charge you or let you off on a promise of rehab.”

A quirked eyebrow appeared in the mirror.

“I’m not going to be questioned at all, much less charged with anything.”

“I’d love to know why you think that.”  Greg said.

“CCTV.”  The kid said it as though it was the answer to every conceivable question, the only possible solution to Greg’s query.

Greg waited for a better explanation, but the young man seemed to think that one was not necessary.

“Right.”  Greg said after a minute.  “I hope you’re prepared to face charges.  Dealing cocaine is a serious crime.  You could face years in prison.”

“You aren’t going to charge me.”  Again the certainty in the young man’s voice was irrefutable.

“Of course, I-“

“No, you aren’t.”  He interrupted Greg again.

“Yes! I-“

“Please.  You have kids, small ones.”

How could he possibly know that?  Greg opened his mouth to protest, but didn’t even get a single word out.

“You’re overly soppy about them because your wife doesn’t let you see them, and you think I’m younger than I really am, which is making you feel paternal toward me.  Sentiment is clouding your already mediocre judgement.  You wouldn’t press charges even if you were going to have the opportunity, which you aren’t.”

“How- No, seriously, how could you possibly know any of that?”  Greg asked.

“Your fingers are stained.  Not ink from an office, certainly not from the Yard.  No, the colors are too bright.  Children’s markers, but the stains are faded, several days old.  A father dedicated enough to color with his kids doesn’t limit that activity to the weekends, especially during the summer holidays.  Either you’re too busy at work to spend time with them, or your wife has custody.  More likely it’s both.  Look at the bags under your eyes.  Too many late nights at the office.  Hard to say if that drove your wife to the affair or just provided a convenient excuse.  I’m guessing the latter.  You work hard, you’re a dedicated father, therefore you’re likely to be dedicated in other matters as well, which means the divorce falls squarely on her shoulders, but you still feel guilty.  You think you work too much, that’s why you let her keep the flat and the kids.  In order to justify your work habits to yourself however, you need to feel that you are ‘helping people.’  Particularly young people.  You think I can’t be more than 19, based on my appearance, which means you want to help me out.  Getting charges on my record will follow me forever.  Much better to frighten me into rehab.  I’m 25 in reality, so you can stop indulging in these ridiculous fatherly feelings.  Go back to your own children, Sergeant.”

Greg sat dumfounded in the front seat.  What kind of person was he dealing with here?  The kid knew his whole life story, and he didn’t even know his name!

“God, what an idiot.  It appears the Yard is even less competent than I thought.  How you manage to solve any cases is beyond me.  You’re not likely to make Detective any time soon, Sergeant.”

Anger boiled in Lestrade’s stomach, and his hands clenched on the steering wheel.  Who did this kid think he was?  He thought Lestrade wouldn’t charge him?  Well, he was about to find out exactly how wrong he was.  If he was smart enough to understand Lestrade from a glance, he should know better than to manufacture street drugs.  The Yard had more than enough evidence to convict him.  Supply and manufacture of a Class A substance could land him a life sentence.  He’d be lucky if it was just a few years.

Lestrade’s knuckles were white and the rain had stopped by the time the car rolled up in front of New Scotland Yard.  He slammed the door behind him after getting out and reached to open the back door.  As he pulled the kid from the backseat, the Superintendent rushed out of the headquarters building.

“Lestrade.  Bail’s been posted already.  You have to let him go.”  The superintendent said.

Greg looked between the smug face of the still-handcuffed youth and the scowl of the Superintendent, and his mouth dropped open.

“What?  How is that even possible?”  Greg asked.

“CCTV,” came the answer from that self-righteous, egotistical child.

Greg moved stiffly to unhandcuff him.  The kid ruffled his hair artfully and threw a smirk over his shoulder as he walked away.

“What was that all about?”  Greg growled, barely restraining himself from poking the Superintendent in the chest.  “He was manufacturing cocaine!  How can we just let him go?!”

“He’s got friends in high places, Lestrade.”

“Like who?”  Greg asked.

“Even I don’t know.  The order for his release came from on high.  Whoever he knows has a lot of power, though.  All we can do is keep an eye out, in case the kid gets in to trouble again.”  The Superintendent said.

Greg sighed.  “Who _is_ the kid, anyway?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. Six Hours

The smack of a case file hitting his desk made Greg look up from the small mountain of paper before him.  Detective Gregson looked down grimly from the other side of the desk.

“Another one.  You’ll have to go down to the morgue, Lestrade.”  She turned and departed without further explanation.

Not that explanation was necessary. 

Greg heaved a sigh, burying his face in his hands.  This was the fourth dead body found in as many weeks.  Dead bodies shouldn’t be Greg’s division.  Unfortunately, Homicide covered neither simple overdoses nor deaths resulting from tainted drugs, both of which were horrifically common.  The Drugs Directorate worked with Homicide sometimes on cases of drug-related violence or if there were strong suspicions of foul-play, of course.  This case, however, provided no indication that death was ever the intent. 

The corpses had just been young people, wasting their life getting high.  And cocaine was a regrettably expensive high.  Dealers frequently cut it with fillers, usually narcotics, to reduce the price and boost profits without sacrificing that high.  Those same fillers, though, could be deadly if added in the wrong doses.  The only way to stop the deaths would be to find the person selling the drugs.

The particular individual responsible for this batch was proving elusive.  Without more evidence, the investigation was going nowhere. 

Greg had an idea of who it might be though.  The appearance of the bodies came just one month after the inexplicable release of Sherlock Holmes – enough time for the kid to have reestablished a base somewhere.  Greg had no doubt that Holmes was capable of creating the tainted drugs.  Refining while high always led to mistakes.  While he had no proof linking Holmes to the deaths, another body might offer some new hints.

Greg stood, pocketing his mobile and downing the rest of his coffee before heading out.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside Bart’s hospital.  He trudged inside, catching a lonely glimpse of the sun before it set.  He wasn’t likely to see it again today; postmortems were rarely quick.

He flashed his badge at the front desk and a nurse escorted him down to the morgue where Dr. Hooper awaited him.  She snapped a glove off her right hand before offering to shake Greg’s.

“Sergeant Lestrade.  I guess Detective Gregson was too busy to make it today?”

“Yeah, sorry, Dr. Hooper.  It’s just me today.  I just need to confirm that this is connected to the other three.  Unless you’ve got anything that might tie her to a specific dealer.”

“Him, you mean.”  Hooper said.

“Him?”

“Yeah, well, the body is male…”  She jumped to continue when Greg made a frustrated sound.  “Oh, that doesn’t mean it isn’t connected though.  The drug is the same.  Cocaine mixed with twelve percent fentanyl, just like the others.”  She paused and looked contemplatively at the corpse.  “It makes sense, really.  No drug dealer caters to just women.  I haven’t seen anything that might tie him to any one dealer though.  Here take a look for yourself.”

She uncovered the body and stepped back to let Greg take a look.  He slowly examined the corpse starting at the head and working his way to the feet.  Same as the others, he found no indication of injury or struggle.

“Where are his clothes and personal effects?”  Greg asked.

“Oh, I have them here.”  Hooper scurried to the corner and returned with a plastic bag filled with the young man’s clothes.

“We’ll take a look at these.  I don’t expect we’ll find much, though, not if the other victims are any indication.  Thanks, Dr. Hooper.”

“It’s no problem.  I’m always happy to help.”  She smiled cheerily as Greg left the hospital.

He climbed back into his police cruiser and started south for home.  He could analyze the rest of the evidence tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.  Street lights flashed rhythmically overhead, and Greg sunk slowly into a stupor.  The case facts still swirled lazily in Greg’s mind, but nothing added up. 

The four victims all came from affluent families.  They were all university students at King’s College.  They all died in the same manner.  But none of that helped.  Any dealer would have a typical territory and clientele, and cocaine addicts were almost always affluent. The police were searching diligently for any dealers operating near the university.  A few already-known ones kept turning up during the investigation, but Lestrade couldn’t tie them to the tainted batch in any way.

The rash of dead bodies was small too for the concentration of fentanyl.  A twelve percent solution should kill more often than not, and any dealer making enough money to survive averaged more than one client a week.  If Greg didn’t know better, he’d almost say the deaths were targeted.

They couldn’t be, though.  Targeted deaths would be murder, and murder required motive.  The victims had little in common outside their social status and university affiliation.  In a school with over 25,000 students, those connections meant little.  They didn’t have the same interests: different courses of study, different years, different social groups, and different extracurriculars.  The only other thing that had tied them all together had been gender.

Until today.

What motive could exist to kill such disparate people?  Accidental overdose made more sense.

Greg took a deep breath.  His instincts told him that Holmes was somehow the key to all this.  They just needed one scrap of evidence that could point them towards the culprit.

Greg continued South, through Vauxhall.  He was just passing the Vauxhall Bridge on the right, when a mop of curly hair caught his attention on the left.  Greg watched in his wing mirror as Holmes ducked casually down a side street.

Greg pulled the cruiser over, jumping out and hurrying after him.  Whatever Sherlock Holmes was up to, Greg was sure it wasn’t good.

The lights on the side street were spaced farther apart, and the darkness hung heavy over him as Greg made his way after Holmes.  Two blocks later, Greg watched him duck into an alleyway.  Greg followed, and emerged five minutes later in a labyrinth of arches.  He watched from behind a pillar as Sherlock made camp in a shadowy corner. 

He unrolled a sleeping bag, and a hypodermic needle appeared in his hand along with a little vial of cocaine.  He was clearly still using.  However, Greg could not see how he was refining without a stable base of operation.  He had no equipment, no supplies.  Well, Greg could arrest him for possession and use today, and try to tie the refinement and sale back to him during interrogation.

He watched as Holmes pressed the needle into a vein and depressed it.  Sherlock’s eyes closed in obvious bliss as the drug penetrated his system.  Unable to watch any longer, Greg stepped slowly into the open and announced himself.

“Stop.  Stay where you are, Mr. Holmes.  You’re under arrest for possession and use of a Class A substance.  Again, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Sherlock’s pupils dilated as the drug took greater hold.  Greg believed for an instant that he wouldn’t try to run, and then, he bolted, leaving his things behind.

Greg took off after him, weaving through the back alleyways of Vauxhall.  Holmes was faster than him.  He would have escaped if not for a fortuitous chain-link fence down one of the paths he had chosen.  Greg snatched at Sherlock’s heels, as Sherlock vaulted over it, but at the top, the cuff of his expensive shirt snagged on the fence.  With Holmes unable to continue running, Greg snapped a handcuff around his already-ensnared wrist.

Greg hopped the fence then too.  Sherlock’s face was contorted, but rather than angry, he looked simply annoyed.  Greg manhandled him around and made his way back to Sherlock’s campsite.  There, he unceremoniously stuffed everything back into the cheap backpack from whence it had come, and picked it up.

Before departing, Greg looked around.  No CCTV cameras here.  Whoever Sherlock’s mysterious benefactor was, they weren’t watching now.  Perhaps, with any luck Greg would actually get a chance to question the kid this time.

They walked back to the police cruiser in silence, Lestrade escorting Holmes from behind.  In a perfect example of déjà vu, Greg covered the top of Sherlock’s head with his palm before pressing him into the back seat and climbing in the front.

They drove in absolute silence.

After the last ride to New Scotland Yard, Greg had been expecting another brilliant tirade.  The quiet was uncanny, and Greg worked desperately to ignore his growing sense of unease.  Two minutes before they were due to arrive at headquarters, Sherlock decided to break the silence.

“I can scarcely deny that I’m guilty of possession and use of cocaine, – you already have my stash in your custody, and a blood sample will prove the rest, even if your word alone wasn’t enough – but whatever other crime of which you believe me guilty is a false assumption.  You’ll never prove it because it isn’t true.”

“You mean to tell me that I won’t find everything you need to refine cocaine in this bag?”  Greg asked.

“Yes.  That's exactly what I'm telling you.  Though by all means, see for yourself.”  Sherlock replied irritatingly calmly.

Greg seethed.  It wouldn’t matter what was or wasn’t in the bag if the interrogation went well.  Holmes would tell him everything he needed to know all on his own.

They returned to silence for the remainder of the car ride.

Greg half-expected the Superintendent to materialize again as he pulled up to the front of headquarters, so he breathed a sigh of relief to see a vacant stretch of pavement.  He pulled Sherlock from the car and dragged him inside.

After securing Holmes safely in a detention cell, Greg trudged back to his desk and sat down to contemplate the paperwork.  He needed to report this arrest too, so a call to Detective Gregson would be in short order.

He had barely started to type in the blanks of the report when his desk phone rang.  When Greg answered the voice on the other end sounded miffed.

“Sir, you have to do something about this guy.  He won’t shut up, bangin’ on the bars and complainin’ about bein’ ‘bored.’”

Greg groaned.  “Alright, I’ll be right down.”

He forced himself to his feet and started for the stairs.  As he descended, the sounds of a voice yelling became gradually louder.  He slid his ID through the reader and entered the passcode before pulling open the door that separated the detention cells from the rest of the building.

“What seems to be the problem?”  Greg asked.

“Well, Sir –“  The guard began.

“Bored.”  Holmes interrupted.

Greg raised an eyebrow at the young man.

“Bored.”  Sherlock smacked his palms against the cell bars before wrapping his fists around two of them and leaning forward.  “This is a waste of time.  I need something to think about.  My mind is rotting without a problem to solve.”

“You’re worried about your mind rotting, and you took cocaine?”  Greg asked stepping closer to the cell.

“Yes!  Think!  Cocaine.  Not narcotics.  Stimulants.  Not depressants.  Something to make my mind faster, clearer.  Cocaine helps me think.  It makes me better.”

“Until it kills you that is.”  Greg said.

Sherlock pushed off the bars, rolling his eyes.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  I always keep track of my dosages methodically.”

“And you aren’t concerned about killing someone else either, I take it?”  Greg folded his arms across his chest.

“No.  Now, you can provide me with something to do or you can listen to me complain.  Your choice.”

“Fine.  Give me one minute.”  Greg huffed.

He stomped out to the lobby and swiped the day’s newspaper from one of the tables.  Returning to the detention area, he shoved the paper through the bars at Sherlock.

“Read this.  Do the crossword.  Have fun.”

Holmes looked genuinely surprised that Greg had done anything at all to appease him.  He reached slowly to take the newspaper and carefully unfolded it.  Greg turned and headed to the door, murmuring to the guard to call if there were any more problems.  The door was half-open when a voice made him pause.

“Is this what you think I’m guilty of?”

Lestrade turned back to see Sherlock holding the newspaper up.  The front page showed an article on the recent drug deaths, complete with pictures of the first three victims.  Lestrade wracked his brain for an off-the-cuff response, but before he found one, Sherlock cut him off.

“I only refine for myself, first of all.  That much should be evident from the equipment your team confiscated alone.  All the residue is an absolutely pure product.  What you found on me today is a pure seven percent solution.  Narcotics may not dull the high, but they dull my thought process.  A mixture of the two is hardly what I’m after.”

Greg’s mouth fell open.  Why was Holmes telling him all this?

“That doesn’t mean you don’t run a separate operation to sell.  It even makes sense that you’d be more careful with the stuff for your own personal use.”  Greg said.

“Oh, do use your brain, Sergeant.”  Sherlock sneered.  “This isn’t some casual dealer botching the ratios.”

“What are you implying?”

“It’s not an accident.  These people were murdered.”

Stunned silence followed Holmes’ pronouncement.  Greg was tempted to respond with a sneer of his own.  After all, what did Sherlock Holmes know about detective work?  But hadn’t he also thought the victims seemed targeted only a few hours earlier?  He had dismissed the thought in favor of a simpler, more common solution.  All because he couldn’t see a motive.  But maybe it was hiding in plain sight.  Could it be that he had been so caught up in his original conjecture that he had truly failed to see any other option?

“What makes you say that?”  He asked cautiously.

Sherlock tilted his head at Greg, studying him for a heartbeat before turning back to the newspaper and letting his thoughts fly.

“The necklaces.  Look closely at the photos, and you’ll see that they’re all wearing one.  Not terribly unusual in and of itself, but look closer.  They’re all different, but they’re all hearts.  Little silver hearts on a silver chain.  And not just that, they all hang from the chain at an angle, inclined thirty degrees or so to the right.  Either three unrelated people have remarkably similar tastes, or these were purchased by the same person.  Balance of probability suggests these three women are not as unrelated as you think.  Now whoever purchased the necklaces might not be our killer, but I bet he knows something about all this.  That’s where you should be: tracking him down, not questioning me.”

God damn it.  Murder wasn’t even Greg’s division!

“That doesn’t solve anything!”  Greg said.

“Then get to work, Sergeant.  You’re a member of New Scotland Yard, not a child playing policeman.”

“Where am I even supposed to start looking for this person?  This mystery necklace buyer?”

“I can find him for you.”  Sherlock said.

“I can’t let you out.”

“Put an ankle monitor on me.  I can do in hours what will take you days.  Give me… twelve hours.  I’ll not only find whoever bought the necklaces, I’ll find your murderer.”

“Why would you help me?”  Greg asked.

“It’s a puzzle.”

“So?”

“It will keep me from being bored.”  Sherlock stared at him, drinking in what Greg was sure was a skeptical expression.  “If you doubt my intentions, then give me incentive.  I catch your murderer, and you let me go.  No charges.  No record.”

Greg hesitated.  This deal would break every conceivable Yard protocol.  Still, he had made far too many assumptions about Holmes.  The kid deserved the benefit of the doubt.  Plus, if he did manage to solve the case that quickly, it would make Greg look spectacular.  It was the middle of the night too.  Detective Gregson and the Superintendent weren’t likely to find out…

In twelve hours it would be mid-day, however.

Greg grabbed the key from the opposite wall, pushed it into the lock, and turned.  The door swung open, creaking ominously, and Greg wondered just what he was getting himself in to.  “Six hours.  Solve it in six hours and you’re free to go.”

He started sweating as soon as he saw the manic grin on Sherlock’s face.


	3. Balance of Probability

Greg climbed the stairs quickly on the way back up to his office, Sherlock trailing one step behind.

“I have the latest victim’s possessions upstairs.  You can take a look, though I doubt he’ll have a necklace.”

“He?”  Sherlock asked.

“Yes.  He breaks the pattern.”  Greg said.

“Or he fits into it differently.”

“Possibly.”  Greg conceded.  “The bodies are all still in the morgue too, if you want to see them.”

“I may need to.  Do you have the other victims’ effects as well?  I’d like to take a closer look at the necklaces.”

“They’re in my office too.  Do you need to see them in person?  Only, technically I shouldn’t be showing you any of this.  The moment my boss hears about it, we’re finished.”  Greg pushed a door open and led Sherlock in toward his desk. 

The latest victim’s effects were still laying in plain sight on Greg’s desk; he hadn’t even had a chance to put them away.  Scooping up the plastic bag, he handed it to Sherlock.  “Here.”  He then reached into a filing cabinet, retrieving the paperwork for the case and the rest of the physical evidence.

Greg watched Sherlock pull on a pair of latex gloves and peel open the package.  He removed each item in the bag slowly, examining every inch of it before setting it aside.  Most of the effects were discarded in a pile on the chair in front of Greg’s desk.  Sherlock looked closely at the wallets, probably noting any personal information he could before discarding even those.  Only the necklaces were treated differently.

Sherlock laid them meticulously on the desk, like offerings at an altar, and he inspected them reverently.

He moved on to the fourth victim’s things, while Greg pondered how he had missed the similarities.  It seemed obvious that they were connected now with the necklaces side by side like this.  Sherlock had noticed just looking at the photographs.  What had Greg done wrong?

As Sherlock pulled the last piece of clothing – the pants – from the plastic bag, something heavy and metal fell and hit the floor with a thunk.  He bent to retrieve it, and reemerged from under the desk with a man’s silver ring pinched between his thumb and forefinger.  As Sherlock held it up to the light, Greg took in the details.

It was heavy, but simple – a plain band with no details.  Something on the inside caught Greg’s eye, though.

“Do you see it?”  Sherlock asked.

“Whatever’s engraved on the inside?  What’s it got to do with anything?”

“Take a closer look.”  Sherlock tossed the ring at Greg.  Startled, he barely managed to snag it from the air before it fell.

He turned it over, bending his head down to read the inscription.  It wasn’t a name or a sentimental message, however.  The engraving was a tiny heart, tilted to the right.

“Whoever bought the necklaces bought this too.”  Greg said, astonished.

“It does seem the most likely case.  Probably a lover.  Hearts do tend to indicate sentiment of a romantic nature.”  Sherlock replied.

“So, our dead guy bought all this?  I mean, if he had three girlfriends, it wouldn’t be hard to spin them all a story about getting them a necklace to match his ring.  Maybe a fourth girl killed them all.  Jealousy, plain and simple.”

Sherlock tilted his head.  “It’s not a bad theory.  We can’t know that he bought the jewelry yet, though balance of probability suggests you’re correct.”

“Balance of probability?  Who else could it have been?”

“You’re ignoring the possibility that he was one of the lovers.  It’s unusual for a jilted paramour to kill all the parties involved.  Usually, the murderer will place blame on either the cheater or on the objects of that cheater’s affection.  One or the other, but rarely both.  In which case it’s perfectly plausible that he is one of the lovers – being offed by yet another.  In which case, whoever made these purchases had five lovers, not four.”

“Aren’t you missing the obvious there?”  Greg asked.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a man.  All the other dead people are women.”  Greg explained.

“Not everyone is so black and white, Sergeant.  Not gay or straight, good or bad.  They’re complex.  Very few people fit so neatly into such boxes.”

Greg wondered if Sherlock was referring to himself as much as to the murderer.  After all, he had been arrested twice in five weeks for possession and use of cocaine, and yet here he was trying to solve a murder.  Whatever his motivation, his actions weren’t those of a bad person.

Unfortunately, they weren’t those of a good person either.  Trust would only get them so far.  They needed evidence.

“So where do we go from here?”  Greg asked.

“Give me your phone.”  Sherlock said.

“What?”

“I need to google something.”

Greg reluctantly handed over his mobile and waited while Sherlock punched in a search query.

“Savoy Street.  Bring the ring.  And the victims’ phones; I want to look at their contacts on the way.”  Sherlock said.  He whipped around and headed for the door without even returning Greg’s phone.

“What?”  Greg asked again, hurrying to collect the phones and catch up.

“We’re going to Savoy Street.  The necklaces and ring are relatively cheap.  They could be bought at a department store.  They’re certainly not custom made.  That engraving, however, _is_ custom.  It wouldn’t have been expensive, but it would have required a jeweler.  There’s an inexpensive jeweler on Savoy Street near the King’s College Campus who does engravings.  That’s our best bet for more information.”

Greg chased Sherlock down the stairs and into a waiting cab.  Greg spared half a thought for how the hell he managed to get a taxi at this hour before Sherlock started speaking again.

“They have a matching contact.”

Greg leaned over to try to get a glimpse of the phone.  “That’s impossible.  We documented all the contacts.  There weren’t any matching names.”

“Not the names.  The phone numbers.  Jason, Steve, James, and Charlie.  Whoever this is went by a different name with all of them, but the number does match for all four phones.  He’s obviously trying to keep his real identity secret.  One of them has a picture for the contact, though.”

“We could try to trace him from that.”  Greg said.

“We will, but we’re going to ask the jeweler first.”

The taxi pulled up in front of the jeweler’s shop, and Sherlock darted out.  Greg paid the cabby and followed.

The shop was clearly closed, but a light glowed through the windows from a back room.  Greg knocked.

A few minutes later, an elderly, white-haired man opened the door a few inches and squinted at them.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.  I’m Sergeant Lestrade from New Scotland Yard and this is Mr. Holmes.  He’s a… consultant.  We have a couple questions if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.  Please come in.”  He stood back to allow them inside.  “I’m Ben.  Ben Callabrese.  I own this little place.  I don’t sleep much these days – you know how it is – so I come in to the shop sometimes to work at night.  How can I help you gentlemen?”

“We’re looking for whoever commissioned this piece.”  Greg held out the ring.

Callabrese took it and turned it over once.  “Yes, I remember him.  It’s an unusual piece, but sweet.  He bought it for a boyfriend, as I understand it.  He was a student at the university.  Average height, blonde hair.”

“Is this him?”  Sherlock showed Callabrese the picture from the contact list.

“Yes, yes.  That’s definitely him.  Is he in trouble?  He seemed like such a nice young man.”

“Probably not.  We just want to talk to him.  Do you know his name?”  Greg asked.

“No, I’m sorry.  I might be able to find him in my records, but I still keep them all by hand.  It could take a while.”

“That’s alright.  Thank you for your time Mr. Callabrese.”  Greg smiled and turned to go.

Callabrese saw them to the door and locked it behind them.

Sherlock pulled Greg’s phone from his pocket and started searching the instant his feet hit the pavement.

“Found him.  James Parker.”

“The picture?”  Asked Greg.

“Yes.  I sent it to your phone.  A quick image search brings up his Facebook profile.  Looks like he lives in one of the university residence halls.  How convenient.”

Sherlock turned and set off in the direction of King’s College.

“How will we know which room is his?”  Greg asked.

“We’re going to ask – or rather I am.  I can pass for a university student looking for a friend.  You can’t pass for anything but a cop.”

Outside the residence hall, Sherlock raised a hand, and Greg paused beside a statue.  Sherlock shrugged out of his suit jacket and continued a few paces before catching a student by the arm.

“Um, excuse me.  Do you know where James Parker lives?”

“Yeah, sure.  He’s on the second floor.  I don’t know the room number, but go straight out of the staircase.  Third door on the left.”  The student answered.

“Thank you.”  Sherlock said.

Sherlock strode into the building with remarkable confidence.  Greg, however, was starting to feel distinctly worried about this investigation.

“We can’t go in the kid’s room without a warrant, Sherlock.  Any evidence we find will be thrown out.”

“Wrong.”  Sherlock replied.  “ _You_ can’t go in the room without a warrant.  _I_ can do whatever I want.”

“That’s still breaking and entering.”  Lestrade pointed out.

“Not if the door’s already open.”  Sherlock grinned as they approached Parker’s room, the door ajar.

Greg hovered nervously in the doorframe, while Sherlock investigated the messy room.

“Pre-med books.  He has the chemistry and biology experience to create the drugs.  And look here…”  Sherlock pulled a history textbook from under the bed.  Hidden in a hollowed out pocket in the book, was a plastic bag full of powder.  “This is your man, Lestrade.  You just need a warrant to search here, and you’ll have all the evidence you need.”

Greg sighed.  How was he going to convince a judge to grant a warrant?  “What’s the motive, though?  Why would he kill his own lovers?”

Sherlock left the room precisely as they had found it and joined Lestrade in the hallway.

“I don’t know, but he doesn’t have any other lovers.  All four of our victims are represented in there.  It’s subtle, but still.  Some bobby pins, a bottle of lotion, a tube of mascara that rolled under the bed.  Even our male victim.  His jacket is on the chair.  It’s too big to belong to Parker.”

“It still makes no sense.”  Lestrade said, as a blonde student came out of the stairwell.

Lestrade looked up and instantly recognized Parker.

“Sorry, are you James Parker?”  Greg asked.

“Yes.  Is there a problem?”

“We’re wondering what happened to your boyfriend and why you don’t seem to be mourning him.”  Sherlock said.

The look of terror that stole over Parker’s face made Greg certain that their fourth victim had, in fact, been involved with Parker.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.  I’m not gay.”  Parker said, blushing.

“You don’t have a boyfriend because he’s dead.  You killed him.  Along with your three girlfriends.”  Sherlock said.

Parker’s mouth dropped open in shock, but Sherlock continued on relentlessly.  “You actually cared about him.  You gave him a picture for his phone contact list.  You even gave him your real name.  But you couldn’t be seen as gay.  Your social status at school depends on your heterosexuality.  So you hid the truth behind girlfriends.  Can’t have just one.  She might expect you to take it too seriously, but it’s hard to hide their existence from one another when you so specifically want them to be seen.  They all even have things in your room.  One of them found out about the others.  Of course, a little digging on their part probably unearthed your boyfriend too.  What do three angry, hurt young women do with the perfect blackmail information?  They use it.  So you killed them.”

“You can’t prove that.”  Parker stammered.

“Yes, we can.  Easily.  The only question is why you would kill the boyfriend too… Oh.”

“What?” Asked Lestrade.

“He found out you killed the girls.”  Sherlock said.  “Maybe guilt made you confess.  Maybe he was just clever, but he found out.  You killed him to keep the first three murders secret.”

Tears leaks down Parker’s face.  “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen!”

“Hold on there, kid.”  Lestrade said.  “Before you say anything else, I’m placing you under arrest.  You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.  Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Parker cooperated, but sobbed while Greg placed him in handcuffs.  The three of them headed outside, and Greg called for someone to come pick up Parker.

Sherlock turned to him.  “Are they coming for me too?”

“Huh?”  Greg responded.

“To take me back to prison?”  Sherlock asked.

Greg hesitated.  Legally, Holmes should be back in jail, but he had solved the case.  Judging from the sun peeking out from the horizon, it was just now nearing six in the morning.  Sherlock had met the terms of their agreement.

And Greg was a man of his word.

“Get out of here before anyone else shows up…  And thanks.”  Greg smiled ruefully.

Sherlock smirked, but looked genuinely pleased as he turned to go.

Five minutes later, a squad car pulled up, and Greg climbed in with his prisoner.  Sherlock’s day might be over, but Greg had paperwork to do.

The first four hours after Greg arrived back at headquarters were spent in paperwork hell.  Telling this story without including Sherlock proved difficult.  Greg could barely remember how he had drawn all those conclusions.  Just as he was getting ready to call it quits and go home for some much-needed sleep, Detective Gregson walked into his cubicle.

“Lestrade.  Listen, they’re talking about moving you over to the homicide division because of this case.”  She said.

“What do you mean?  They don’t shuffle people over one case.”

“Normally?  No.  But you have to admit that solving a serial killer case overnight when no one else even realized it was murder is a little atypical.”  Gregson said.

Lestrade sat in silent shock.  When had his job become so crazy?  He had no right to be working on homicides.  He hadn’t even solved this case.  They just thought he had.

“Before you say anything, I doubt you’ll get a choice.  You should be proud of your work last night.  There’s a reason they want you over there.”  Gregson said.

At that moment another detective rounded the corner.  Greg had seen him around, but never met him.  Gregson introduced him.

“Lestrade this is Detective Inspector Hopkins.  He’s the DI for homicide.  He’ll be overseeing your report for this case.”  She said.

The red-haired detective looked down at Greg menacingly and held out his hand for Greg’s half-finished report.  He skimmed it after Greg handed it to him.

“This needs a lot of work, Lestrade.  You may be able to get away with shoddy performance in drugs, but homicide is the big leagues.  I expect this to be rewritten before tomorrow.”

Hopkins threw the report back at Greg and left.

“He’s a jerk, but he’s good at his job.”  Gregson said.  “Go home.  Get a few hours’ sleep, and then we can deal with this.”

Gregson walked away, and Greg dragged himself out to his police cruiser to heed her advice.  On the drive home, he thought back over the last twenty-four hours.

He should be thrilled at how well the case went.  A nagging feeling of guilt dogged him, though.  Sherlock was probably out getting high right now.  All because Greg let him go.  And Greg’s reward was to be moved to the most stressful division, under the worst DI and to go home to an empty flat and an empty bed.  What was even the point? 

Lestrade pulled up to his building and trudged up the stairs.  He paused when he noticed that his door was cracked.  He locked it diligently every time he left.  Someone had either been here and left or was still inside.

Greg’s heart raced into high gear, and he pushed the door open slowly.  Expecting a burglar, he was surprised to see a tall, thin man in a high-priced suit sitting in his armchair, an open newspaper in one hand and a closed umbrella in the other.

The man looked up from the paper and raised an eyebrow.  “Ah, Sergeant Lestrade.  I was hoping to have a word with you.”


	4. Brollies, Ghosts, and Anonymous Sources

Greg stepped into his living room and stared down at the imperious man currently occupying his chair.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”  Greg demanded.

“Who I am is inconsequential.”  The stranger folded his newspaper and looked up.  “I’m here to discuss a mutual acquaintance of ours.  It has come to my attention that you’ve met a certain Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m… interested in his affairs.”  The stranger rose to his feet, using his umbrella in mockery of a cane.  He tugged the creases from his suit jacket before returning his attention to Greg and smiling obsequiously.

“No one is just casually interested in the affairs of a cocaine addict.  Certainly not someone willing to break and enter just to get information.”  Greg took a step into his personal space, determined not to look cowed before the taller man.  “Who are you to Sherlock?”

Rather than backing down, the man simply loomed over Greg.  “On a first name basis already?  I’m surprised.  I didn’t think he had made such a good impression on you, Sergeant.”  He paused and looked down his nose at Greg.  “Suffice it to say, I have an invested stake in keeping him out of trouble.”

Understanding clicked into place in Greg’s mind.  “It was you.  You’re the one who kept him out of prison the first time we met.  Why?  You don’t seem the type to be his friend.”

“Oh, I’m certainly not his friend.”

“Then why do you care?  What do you want?”  Greg asked.

“I want information.  That’s all.  And in return, I can offer you a guarantee.”

Greg crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow skeptically.  “What do you mean ‘a guarantee’?”

The stranger turned slowly and walked over to the window.  He peered through the blinds into the street below as he answered.  “You need Sherlock’s help.  The Yard is hopelessly outclassed in the homicide division.  You’ll never keep up without him.  Not that they expect you to keep up, really.  The higher-ups at the yard know exactly how impossible your task is.  Still, with Sherlock’s help, you’ll certainly impress them.  You could make Detective in just a few years.  Maybe less if you’re not a complete idiot.”

Greg considered the stranger’s words carefully.  From everything he’d ever heard, homicide was perpetually drowning in impossible-to-solve cases.  With Detective Hopkins already set against him, he wasn’t sure he would ever see another promotion.  Sherlock had made Greg look good, but there were real pitfalls in making that a permanent solution.  Letting Sherlock out and allowing him to assist the investigation last night had been a gamble of the biggest sort.  It could just as easily have lost Greg his job as anything else.  In fact, had Greg been less lucky, he could have ended the night in jail with Sherlock.

“However.”  The man looked back over his shoulder at Greg.  “New Scotland Yard doesn’t consult amateurs.  And the legality of hiring a drug addict…  Well, I’m sure you understand the idea.”

Greg blinked, nonplussed.  Could the man’s statement have been a coincidence?  Or did he honestly know what Greg’s thoughts were at that exact moment?  What were the odds of meeting two men who could practically read minds in as many months?  “You can’t make Sherlock help me.  So what exactly are you offering?” 

“Sherlock will show up to help you whether you ask him to or not.  He likes puzzles.  Or perhaps you hadn’t noticed.”  He turned to face Greg and paced back across the room.  “No, I am lucky enough to occupy a minor position in Her Majesty’s government.  I hold some sway over people in positions of power, including a few presiding over the Yard.  I have always been able to convince them to look the other way, where Sherlock is concerned.”

“And you want me to do the same?”  Greg asked.

“No.”  The man looked momentarily caught off guard.  “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“I don’t understand then.  First you somehow finagle him out of jail, and now you want me to make sure he’s incarcerated?  You can’t want both.”

“You misunderstand me.  I’m perfectly aware that your natural inclination is to let Sherlock roam free, – father-child issues, obviously – though I trust you feel a certain level of guilt over it as a lawful person yourself.  What I’m asking is not for you to lock him up, but rather for you to watch him.  He wants to be at the crime scenes; it will be easy for you to keep an eye on him.  He needs supervision, and I need to know what he’s up to.”

When Greg hesitated, the stranger continued.  “As you said, I can’t make Sherlock help you.  He will offer his assistance either way.  I’m not, therefore offering his help.  I am merely using the circumstances of your involvement with him – assuming you accept his offer of service – to broker a different deal.  I can offer you financial assistance, as it were, and the promise that you will never be prosecuted for your involvement with Sherlock.”

It sounded like a good deal: immeasurably good help with his work and extra pay in exchange for chaperoning a misguided kid.  But very few situations in life were truly win-win.  This was illegal, plain and simple.  The stranger hadn’t extended amnesty along with the cash for no reason.

Greg wondered if this man, in his pinstriped suit, could really keep him out of prison and in a job.  ‘A minor position in Her Majesty’s government’ could mean anything, really.

Then again, did it even matter?  Greg couldn’t accept such an offer, regardless.  Sherlock could not be on another crime scene, and Greg could certainly not accept a bribe of any kind.

“I’m afraid I have to decline.”  Greg said.

“What?”  The stranger asked.

“Decline.  It means no.  I won’t be your lackey, I won’t take your money, and I won’t spy for you.”

A scowl distorted the man’s features momentarily, before being replaced by a thin veneer of casual disdain.  “Very well.  Good luck controlling Sherlock; you’re going to need it.”

With a dramatic twirl of his umbrella, the stranger departed, closing the front door behind him.

Greg was abruptly left alone to contemplate the security of his apartment. 

He fumed at the stranger as he carefully locked the door and headed into his bedroom.  A dresser drawer banged open, and Greg yanked a pair of sweatpants out.  Why was this man so certain he would accept Sherlock’s help again?  Surely one case was no indication of a pattern.

Only after Greg had already changed for bed and was halfway through brushing his teeth did it occur to him that he still had no idea who the stranger was.  What did he even want?  Information, he said.  And Sherlock free from prison.  That much seemed clear.  But _why_ did he want to keep Sherlock free?

Greg felt certain that the lack of understanding would plague him for hours yet, but as soon as his head hit the pillow, the oblivion of sleep took him.

  

* * *

 

By October, the summer heat had faded into the cool rains of autumn, and Greg had mostly forgotten about Sherlock Holmes and the mysterious man in the pinstriped suit.  He was constantly busy.  Late nights in the office were no longer the voluntary respite from the loneliness of home, but a mandatory sentence doled out on the judgement of Detective Hopkins.

Cases were never-ending.  Most were fairly simple, but the burden of evidence needed to convict in even the straightforward cases was alarmingly high when the charges involved homicide.  And the sheer volume of cases was overwhelming.  Who knew London was home to so many murders.

To top it all off, Hopkins seemed to harbor a personal grudge against Greg.  He sneered at Greg’s work and doubted his methods.  After all, according to Hopkins, no one from drugs could solve a homicide case.  Unless they were just plain lucky.  Gregson assured Lestrade that it was just normal hazing of the new guy.  She said Greg just needed to prove himself on the team before they would trust him. 

Maybe she was right, but it didn’t matter to Greg.

His life was unceasing misery.  Work was nothing but stress and late hours, and home was just… empty.

Greg was staring down the tunnel of another long day when something good finally happened for a change.  Constable Donovan strolled up to his desk and set a case file down.

“Sally?  What are you doing here?”  Greg asked.

“Looks like somebody feels bad for you.”  She answered sarcastically.  “Gregson sent me over.  Derek is moving.  His wife got some great job in Glasgow.  Since homicide can’t afford to lose anyone, I’m subbing in until they find a replacement.”

“And you’re secretly hoping they decide you are the best replacement?”  Greg asked.

“I wouldn’t mind it.”  She confessed.  “But either way, I get to showcase my chops, and you get to be less miserable for a bit.”

Greg couldn’t help but smile a bit at that.  “So what’s this, then?”  He asked, pointing to the manila folder.

“New case.  Hopkins said ‘it will be good for the rookies.’”  She rolled her eyes.  “Amelia Wise.  She was a prostitute.  Hopkins seems to think it will be straightforward.  Just find out who’s paying for sex and question them about the murder.”

“And what do you think?”  He asked, trusting Sally’s instincts over Hopkins’.

“There are a lot of people paying for sex in London.  Even so, it might be that easy to find the guy, but bringing him in… I don’t know, Lestrade.”  She shrugged as Greg pulled the file to him.  “This was pretty… horrific.  It should be getting more press than it is.  Someone’s hushing it up.  The murder was brutal.  Slashed throat, knife wounds.  The victim is barely identifiable.”

Greg opened the folder looked down at the bloody pictures.  “Jesus Christ.  Someone thinks they’re Jack the Ripper.”

Donovan tilted her head to get a better look.  “Copycat, do you think?”

“It’s not impossible.”  Greg said with a sigh.  “Okay, Donovan.  I need to finish up this report before I start on anything new.  If you can, go look in the databases and see what you can dig up on prostitution rings in London.  See if we can find where this girl came from.”

“You got it, sir.”  She left the file on his desk and strode quickly away.

Greg turned back to the paperwork.  If Hopkins was right, this would be another tedious case – tons of paperwork with little actual detecting skills required.  If he could just get through it quickly, he would finally be caught up on cases.  Maybe then Hopkins would get off his back.

He was putting the finishing touches on his report, when footsteps approached his desk again.  Greg didn’t bother looking up before speaking.

“What’ve you got for me?”  He asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

He was expecting Donovan’s voice, but the answer came from a deep baritone instead.

“I have leads on the murder of at least one prostitute, which the Yard is trying to cover up.”

The coffee still in Greg’s mouth nearly found a new home sprayed across his desk.  He barely managed to swallow, and his eyes watered from the burning sensation oozing down his throat.  Greg felt his eyes bulge a bit at the sight of Sherlock Holmes standing in front of his desk, holding a copy of _The Sun_.

“What in God’s name are you on about?  Information on that murder hasn’t been released to the public, and -”  Greg did a double take at the article Sherlock was displaying.  “This is an article on that ridiculous fashion trend with the really long scarves.”  Greg paused to let Sherlock answer, but then another thought occurred to him.  “Wait.  How the hell did you even get _in_ here?”

“What?  No, not that article.  _That_ one.  Obviously.”  Sherlock pointed to a smaller headline, advertising an article that didn’t make the front page. 

Greg reached out and pulled the paper to him, leafing through for the right article.  He found it on page six, tucked into the corner inconspicuously. 

Greg quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock.  “This just says the ghost of Jack the Ripper is haunting Tottenham Court Road.”

“Exactly.”  Sherlock replied.  “The Ripper has never been associated with Tottenham Court Road before, though.  So why is he supposedly haunting it now?”

“You want me to investigate a ghost sighting?  Really?”  Greg asked incredulously.

“No.  Just think for once in your life!  What might inspire rumours about the return of Jack the Ripper, or his ghost?  Murder.  At least one.  A vicious one.  Why Tottenham Court Road?  Not because the real Ripper ever killed there; he didn’t.  Probably because Tottenham Court Road is known for its street walkers.  Someone kills a whore in some bloody, brutal manner, and we get ghost sightings of Jack the Ripper on Tottenham Court Road.  Besides you just confirmed what I thought anyway.”

“Great.  We know how a ghost in a tabloid is connected to our murder.  How exactly does that help us?”  Greg stood up.  “And how in the bloody hell did you get in here?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Your security is ludicrous.”

Greg leaned on his desk and hung his head.  “I don’t have time for this.  What are you doing here?”

“I came to help.”  Sherlock said.

“No.  Just no, Sherlock.  I cannot break the rules for you again.”

“You’re not going to break them for me.  You’re going to break them for you.  You need me.”

“How could you possibly help?  This is an open and shut case.  We can handle it ourselves.”  Greg said.

“Are you sure?”  Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“Then who killed the Tottenham Court Road prostitute?”

Greg gave Sherlock his best glare.  “Just because we haven’t caught him yet doesn’t mean – “

“Then you have leads.”  Sherlock interrupted.

“Leads?”

“Yes.  You haven’t caught the murderer, and you don’t know who committed this crime, but you don’t need my help.  Surely then you must be following legitimate leads.”

“I…  Well, we… I mean – “  Greg spluttered.

“You need my help.”  Sherlock repeated.  “I can solve it quickly, and you need that.  How else are you going to get your new boss to give you a break?”

“How did you even -?”

“Look at the bags under your eyes.  You’re exhausted, overworked.  You’re in a new division, therefore you have a new boss.  New job, new boss, new stress.  You need a break, ergo you need my help.”

Greg groaned.  “Fine.  But I’m not writing you out of the paperwork this time.”

“You can’t tell them you let a drug addict help for free.”  Sherlock said.

“Fine!  You can be anonymous.  Just an anonymous source.  Now, what have you got for me?”


	5. Tenuous Similarities

Greg listened to Sherlock lay out the facts of the case like a minister giving a sermon. 

"Scotland Yard always seems to assume that crimes happen in a vacuum.  In order for one of you to so much as suspect a connection, it has to be blatant, shoved in your faces.  The tenuous similarities get ignored.  Even grossly obvious connections are ignored if there's too much time intervening."

"What are you on about?"  Greg asked.

"The Hyde Park killer."  Sherlock's voice turned dark and ominous.

"But that was almost five years ago now.  I was still on the beat!"  Greg remembered it clearly.  He hadn’t quite made it onto a proper investigative team yet.  Hysteria had threatened London when four young women had turned up dead in Hyde Park.  Everyone had taken extra shifts to try to keep public panic at bay.

"Prostitutes, stabbed to death, completely mutilated by their killer.  It inspired rumours of everything from Mr. Hyde to Jack the Ripper.  Sounds similar, doesn't it?"  Sherlock asked.

"You're jumping to conclusions.  Implying it's the same guy doesn't make sense."  Lestrade shook his head.  One solved crime did not a detective make.  Sherlock was off his rockers if he thought this death was somehow related to the bloody Hyde Park killer.

"And why does it not make sense?"  The question sounded like a challenge, but Greg was ready.

"For one, they caught the guy who did it."  Greg cut Sherlock off when he opened his mouth to retort.  "He was convicted, Sherlock, not just arrested.  He's still in jail.  Besides, they never conclusively proved any of those girls was a prostitute.  They couldn't even identify two of them."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  "You haven't conclusively proven that this girl is a prostitute either.  In fact, I'm rather curious as to why you think she is one."

Greg opened his mouth, but then promptly shut it again, feeling his brow furrow.  Why did he think she was a prostitute?  Because Donovan had told him so, was the only answer that came to mind.  But then how did Donovan know?  She clearly hadn't seen proof in the file, or she wouldn't be wasting her time looking up the information; Sally was far too practical for that sort of thing.  Hopkins must have told her then.  The DI had clearly seen something that hadn't been passed along to them.  Greg made a mental note to ask him later.

"Okay."  Greg hedged.  "I concede that I don't have a firm reason, per se, to conclude without a doubt that she's a prostitute, but that doesn't change the fact that they caught the guy."

"They caught the wrong man."  Sherlock said it with such conviction that Greg found himself nodding without meaning to do so.  Greg shook his head roughly to try to clear it as Sherlock continued.  "Maybe he was even framed.  Juries have been known to get it wrong, and everyone involved was under immense pressure to end it because of the public fear.  Something was missed."

"Why wait five years though?"  Greg asked desperately.  When Sherlock returned only a blank stare, he elaborated.  "Why, if the murderer truly walked free, would he wait five years before picking back up where he left off?"

Sherlock tilted his head just a fraction as though thinking momentarily.  "Why did Jack the Ripper stop killing?"  He asked rhetorically.  "Perhaps the Yard got too close.  The man who was arrested was too close for comfort to the actual killer.  Perhaps he left the country for a bit, or perhaps he was afraid and now isn't.  We could speculate all day, or we could go talk to the people who have the answers."

Sherlock grinned in the mad sort of way that Greg was quickly coming to associate with heart-pounding adrenaline, angry frustration, and the victory of a case well-solved.  Greg felt the corners or his mouth twitch up in imitation in spite of himself.  Talking to a convicted murderer wasn't exactly against policy, but it wasn't following procedure in the strictest sense either.  Well, he'd already told Sherlock he could help, which wasn't exactly kosher to begin with.  In for a penny...

 

* * *

 

 After a quick trip to the records vault to collect anything filed away on the Hyde Park murders, Greg was chauffeuring Sherlock to the federal prison where the convicted - a Mr. Jacob Owing - was incarcerated.  Sherlock sat in the back seat, flipping between the current case and the older one clearly cross-referencing things.  Occasionally he would hold a page up to the rearview mirror, shake it about, and say "See?  It's obvious," or something equally annoying, but what he was trying to get Greg to understand, Greg had no idea.

They pulled up to the prison, and Greg led the way in.  The guard at the front desk checked his ID and then gave Sherlock a questioning look. 

Greg fidgeted, a bit uncomfortable with the scrutiny.  "He's ummm..."

"A consultant."  Sherlock held out his hand to the guard and gave an uncannily normal smile.  "I'm an expert in the sociological consequences of drug use and dealing on crime, including prostitution and murder.  Sergeant Lestrade here is escorting me in on behalf of New Scotland Yard to see if I can help make heads or tails of a recent murder.  We believe Mr. Owing may know one of the suspects, that's all."

"Oh, right."  The guard looked relieved at the explanation, so Greg just smiled as he and Sherlock were allowed into the visiting area.

Owing was brought out in chains and sat behind a bullet-proof glass wall, but the look on his face was one of honest curiosity.  Lestrade looked at Sherlock.  They hadn't discussed how they were going to go about this. 

Sherlock sat with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, his elbows on the small surface in front of them.  He stared at Owing with the intensity of an oncoming train, not blinking for a minute or two.  Greg had to give Owing credit.  Though his expression took on an uncomfortable edge, he didn't shrink away.  When Sherlock finally spoke, it was soft, more for his own benefit than anyone else's.

"You couldn't possibly be the killer."

"Beg pardon?"  Owing's voice was muffled through the speaker that connected the two sides of the glass.

Sherlock shook himself, as though breaking free of some tempestuous reverie before speaking up.  "You aren't the Hyde Park killer; that much is obvious."

"What?"  Greg's voice cracked.  He cleared his throat before continuing in a more conspiratorial tone for Sherlock.  "You haven't even talked to him yet.  We came to question him, not declare him innocent."

"Oh, please."  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "He's certainly not innocent."

Greg's bewilderment lasted only an instant.  Then Sherlock started speaking, and his mind immediately jumped tracks to follow Sherlock.

"He can't be the killer because he's left handed.  The slashes on the victims - including the most recent one, by the way - were all made by a sharp knife with the right hand.  They're too precise to be done by someone using their non-dominant hand to obscure identity.  The cuts were made carefully, almost lovingly.  The calluses on his left hand, the watch on his right, he picked up his tea with his left arm, and there are probably a million more signs in his cell if we just looked.  Left handed, therefore not our murderer.  Innocent, though?  Hardly.  Just a glance at the case file is enough to convict him of drug smuggling.  Probably heroin, based on the areas he traveled to 'for business.'  His finances and his lack of alibis tell the rest of the story.  The police never could quite pin down where all the money came from, could they?  They believed someone paid you to kill those women in the end.  You couldn't rightly tell them that you were supplying London's heroin dealers with fresh batches at the time of their deaths.  Did you not think they would convict you?  I admit the sentence for smuggling that amount of heroin into the country isn't short, but it isn't longer than the one for murder."

Owing stared at Sherlock for perhaps fifteen seconds before regaining his composure and shrugging.  Now it was Greg's turn to stare.  He wasn't going to deny it?

The shrug seemed to help Sherlock reach some sort of conclusion.  A soft "Oh!" preceded his next words, and though his forehead wrinkled in confusion, he spoke confidently.  "You believe in the system."  Sherlock addressed Owing again.  "You always expected to be caught; jail was an inevitability, but you didn't believe the justice system might convict you of something you didn't actually do."  Sherlock's face crinkled again - disgust rather than lack of understanding this time.  "Naive."

"You're telling me."  Owing frowned.

Greg felt frustration bubbling.  "So, what, that's it then?  He shouldn't even be in here, and we've hit a dead end?" 

"Not quite.  The Yard brought Owing in for a reason.  All of the murdered girls had drugs in their system or on their person when they were found.  It's one of the reasons everyone concluded they were prostitutes.  That and the fact that no one seemed to notice them going missing in the first place.  Owing's fingerprints were found amongst the drug stash.  It made enough sense at the time for the Yard to push it through as an explanation."

"You've got an alternative explanation then, have you?"  Greg questioned.

"This man," Sherlock gestured to Owing, "was smuggling drugs into the country.  He wasn't taking them; he wasn't even dealing them.  Middlemen almost always do that part of the job.  A smuggler has no real access to drug users, including sex workers.  One of his dealers though..."   Sherlock trailed off, and Greg looked at Owing, understanding flickering just outside his grasp.  Owing wasn't the killer, but he knew the person who was.  Owing had the answers, and it was Greg's job to get them.

"Look, I used to work in drugs.  I'm not sure I can get you out of jail, but I may be able to get you a reduced sentence if you cooperate and help us prove that you didn't kill anyone."  Greg gave Owing a few seconds to let the idea sink in.  "Do you know anything about who killed those girls in Hyde Park?"

It was a desperate line of questioning, but Sherlock had been right about them getting the wrong man; perhaps he was right about the killer being the same this time.  And this time, the answer was tantalizingly close.  No one else had to die.

Greg watched a battle rage inside Owing.  He could only pray that Owing would trust him.  When he finally spoke, it was to plead for one final piece of reassurance.

"He's going to find evidence to convict the real killer?"  Owing pointed at Sherlock.  Against all odds, it was Sherlock whom Owing trusted with his potential freedom, but when Sherlock answered, Greg couldn't help but feel that same confidence in the young man’s brilliance.

"He can't escape me."

Greg reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a tape recorder, and Owing took a deep breath before beginning his tale.

"It was like you said.  I'd been bringing heroin into the country for a while.  I had a few steady dealers looking to me for their supply, and I was making good money.   It was a good deal, you know.  It's easy if you're educated too.  I got a job selling beer, you know, for this brewery.  I studied business at uni, you see.  It was a fun job.  Travel the world, convince bars and hotels to put the goods on tap, but the pay was never something to be envied.  So when one of the gangs in Mexico contacted me to bring the heroin back, it sounded like a good idea.  You can't make that money selling beer.  I was hooked after that.  I was good at it too; never even came close to getting caught, but then one day, this red-headed fellow approached me, out of the blue.  He wanted me to off some hookers, said he'd pay me for it.  He didn't say how to do it, just that it 'needed to be done,' whatever that means."

Greg shifted in his seat.  He still didn’t understand.  Who would pay good money to hire a hit man for hookers?

"I said 'no,' of course."  Owing continued.  "Money for drugs was one thing, but murder?  No, I couldn't do it.  One of my dealers was there, though - Adam Lang.  He wanted the money.  He took the job.  Girls started turning up dead after that.  I cut Lang off.  I was afraid of the whole business, but he turned up a few weeks later.  He told me he needed a place to hide from the cops.  The guy who'd hired him warned him to stop, said the cops were too close to the truth.  In the end, I didn't even give him a couch to sleep on, and the cops still came for me."

Greg didn’t miss the hint of bitter resentment in the man’s voice.  Bloody hell, justice had failed badly on this one.

“Adam Lang?”  Sherlock asked.  “Describe him for me.  And the man who hired him.”

“Adam?  Well, he’s a tall bloke and young.  He’d be maybe thirty now, at most.  Brown hair, greenish eyes.  Not in bad shape, but not one to obsess over the gym either.  The other guy didn’t really say much to me.  Average height, but thin.  Brown eyes, a bit unusual with the hair, but not unheard of.”  Owing shrugged.

Sherlock looked at him for a few more seconds before abruptly standing and whirling back towards the entrance, leaving a baffled Greg to mutter thanks and apologies in his wake.

Outside, Greg made his complaints known.  “And what the bloody hell was that all about?  Where are we going?  Owing could have told us where this Lang guy lives!”

“Hardly.”  Sherlock replied.  “I have never once met a known drug dealer with a permanent residence – certainly not one in which they would remain five years.  No, Owing has told us everything he can.  We’ll track down Lang on our own.”

“And just where exactly are we going to start?  Cops can’t exactly flag down the nearest druggie and ask to be pointed in the direction of his dealer.”  Greg said.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not a cop, and I have connections.”


	6. Pickpockets and Prostitutes

Greg jammed a hand into his pocket for his car keys.  Momentary confusion settled in when he only came up with his wallet and the tape recorder instead.  God damn it, he must have dropped them inside the bloody prison.  He about-faced to see Sherlock about three yards behind him, holding up his keys and jangling them.

“You said it yourself.”  Sherlock pointed out.  “A cop can’t walk up to a drug addict and ask where his dealer is.  Leave the cruiser here.  We’ll get a cab.”

“Did you just pickpocket me?  Give me back my keys!”

Sherlock clenched his fist around the keys and fled.  Lestrade chased him over to the main road, where a taxi appeared instantaneously at Sherlock’s outstretched hand.  Climbing into the back seat on Sherlock’s heels, Greg forgot all about his keys as he suddenly realized that he had no idea where they were even going.

“Vauxhall Bridge.”  Sherlock told the driver, and Greg immediately regretted climbing into the cab.

“Wait, Sherlock.  These connections of yours – they’re homeless people, aren’t they?”

“Of course.”  Sherlock looked genuinely surprised by the question.  “What type of connections were you expecting a homeless drug addict to have, exactly?”

Jesus Christ, this was so far removed from procedure, Greg might as well abandon it altogether.  “You were serious.  We’re actually going to talk to criminals.”  He felt like beating his head against the cab window.

“Well we’ve already spoken to one.”  Sherlock reminded him.  “These are just petty criminals, anyway.  At worst.  They’re hardly worth worrying about.”

“Then why, pray tell, are we even talking to them?”  Lestrade asked.

“The homeless and the petty criminals understand the underbelly of the city – the part that everyone else is aware of, but that most choose to ignore.  They feel the city’s pulse, and they know when something goes wrong.  They are the first to suffer, and therefore they keep track of problems.  Amongst the homeless is where we’ll find information on the latest murder victim.  She was one of them – one of us – after all, the dregs of society.  This is how we tie it all together and find Lang.”

Greg felt his gut clench at that statement.  It was hard to reconcile Sherlock’s cavalier tone with his self-deprecating words.  He was one of the very homeless people of whom he spoke.  It wasn’t pity, but genuine compassion and worry that had Greg’s stomach in knots, and he wondered when he had developed any level of respect for the kid.

The cab pulled over just on the south side of Vauxhall Bridge, not far from the place Greg had spotted Sherlock that summer.  Sherlock bolted from the vehicle, and Greg took off after him.  Just before they reached the spot where Greg had attempted to arrest Sherlock, they slowed to a quiet walk.  Sherlock peered around the corner.

“Something’s wrong.”  He muttered to Greg.  “It’s late morning.  People should be up, talking, moving around.”

Greg looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, and a wave of anxiety hit him.  He sensed it too, the wrongness, though he couldn’t place precisely what was causing the feeling.  There were plenty of people still scattered throughout the place, hunched down in blankets and sleeping bags.  Tired eyes peered out of corners to investigate the strangers, him and Sherlock, as they entered slowly.

“They’re afraid.”  Greg murmured.

Sherlock gave the tiniest nod before beginning to pick his way through the area.  Greg wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he stopped and crouched in front of a small bundle of rags.  Greg startled when the bundle spoke in a sharp soprano voice.

“You brought a cop down here?  Really?  God, Sherlock, you’re such a wanker.”

Sherlock glanced at Greg and raised an eyebrow.  “What makes you think he’s a cop?”

Greg saw a head of blonde hair and grey eyes pop out of the blankets before the voice continued.  “Come on.  He ain’t homeless, and who else would you know?” 

“How would I know a cop?”  Sherlock challenged.

She just raised an eyebrow, her face indicating a mixture of amusement and skepticism.  “I saw him arrest you a few months back, Sherlock.”

“And you remembered him?  Well, if you’re smart enough to remember that he’s a cop, you’re smart enough to see he isn’t here to arrest anyone.  I need your assistance, Dasha.  Tell me why everyone is so frightened.”

She hesitated, casting a suspicious look at Greg.  “It’s…  it’s Nadya.  She’s missing.  It’s not so uncommon, I know, but, well with Amelia Wise getting killed and all.”  She finished with a shrug.

“Nadya… I don’t know her.  You two share a common history?”  Sherlock asked.

“Yes.  I didn’t know her before we were homeless, but our situations are similar.”  As she spoke, Greg saw tears forming in her eyes.  “Everyone’s afraid, Sherlock, but I… I really think I might be in trouble.”

Real worry uncharacteristically etched itself on Sherlock’s face for the briefest moment before disappearing again.  It happened so quickly, Greg wasn’t even certain if he saw it at all or just imagined it.  Sherlock obviously knew this young woman.  Even for someone who seemed to feel so little, he was incredibly close to the situation.

“I’ll find her.  I promise.”  Sherlock said, making an abortive gesture as if to reach out to Dasha.  “Where was she last seen?”

“Outside Mozart’s Coffee House on Wickham Street.  She’d relapsed.  Billy went with her to try to talk her out of buying, but he couldn’t convince her.  She was meeting her dealer over there.  That was day before yesterday.  Maybe one o’clock in the afternoon.”

Sherlock nodded once and stood.  “Stay with someone else at all times.  I’ll come back to check on you as soon as I can.”

He turned and headed back to the main road.  Greg dashed after him once again. 

“So we’re going to Mozart’s?”  He asked.

“Yes.”  Sherlock said.

Questions danced in Greg’s head during the walk back to the main road, but he didn’t dare ask until they were seated securely in the back of a new taxi.

“She’s your friend?  Dasha, I mean.”

“She’s moderately more tolerable than most of humanity.”

“Right.”  Greg mentally filed that as ‘Sherlock’ for _yes, she_ _’s my friend._   “So, Dasha and Nadya are both prostitutes.  Like Amelia Wise.”  Greg said.

“Dasha was a prostitute, though not like Miss Wise.  Wise was likely working for one of the higher-end escort services, based on her clothing alone.  Dasha managed to escape the sex trade.  She was trafficked.  Without any sort of legal residence or protection, though, she ended up on streets.  It’s different, though I doubt anyone who hates prostitutes as a matter of principle would see it as such.”  The last part of Sherlock’s explanation sounded bitter, as though he thought Greg might just be so judgmental.  Greg took a deep breath to make sure his next statement came out calmly and professionally.

“So Dasha says that Nadya is a former prostitute, albeit against her will.  She goes to buy drugs and vanishes off the street.  You think she’s dead?”

“Yes.  But I promised to find her, so I will.”  Silence followed Sherlock’s statement.

Greg churned the new information over in his mind.  Someone had been paid to kill prostitutes, and Sherlock seemed to think the person was overtly prejudiced against the profession.  “You think this is a vigilante.”

Sherlock looked at him, a touch surprised.  “That’s two correct deductions in the last five minutes.  Perhaps you aren’t as useless as the rest of Scotland Yard, after all, Sergeant.”

The cab pulled up outside a warm-looking coffee shop, and they spilled out of the car.  Sherlock took ten seconds to take in the scene.  Greg followed his gaze over to a shadowed doorway cattycorner from Mozart’s, the perfect place for a quick, illegal exchange.

Sherlock ducked into the coffee shop with Greg tight on his heels.

“We’re too early.”  He murmured in Greg’s ear.  “We can wait here without looking suspicious.”

“Not till nightfall.  No one stays that long for coffee.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Plenty of drug deals happen during the day.  Dasha even told us it was early afternoon when Nadya came here.  Her dealer should be here shortly.”  Sherlock turned to the barista.  “Coffee.  Milk and two sugars, please.”

“Uhh, coffee.  Black.”  Greg muttered.

Sherlock snagged his drink from the barista and then glided to a table near the window without paying.  Greg dug some change from his pocket and paid for both drinks, while watching Sherlock lean over his chosen table and talk to the couple already sitting there.  Greg sighed when they immediately got up and left.

“What did you say to them, Sherlock?”

“Nothing they shouldn’t have already known.  We needed this table.”

Greg sighed again, but gave up and went to sit down with his coffee.  How exactly Sherlock had insulted the strangers badly enough to make them leave really wasn’t any of Greg’s business.

Sherlock sat, oddly hunched over his coffee as though he were cold, which Greg realized guiltily, he almost certainly was.  October in London, and Sherlock was running about in just his shirtsleeves.  Homeless without a coat.  Greg would have to try to fix that.

Unable to keep looking at Sherlock, Greg looked left and realized that they had a perfect view of the shop across the street.  They sat in silence, sipping their drinks for a few minutes.  As Greg’s watch approached noon, a youngish man stopped and leaned casually against the wall across the street, playing with his phone.  His dark hair and height seemed to match Owing’s description.

“That’s our guy.”  Greg said, leaning conspiratorially towards Sherlock.

“Yes, it is.”  Sherlock’s response was casual, off the cuff.

“Why aren’t we doing anything?”  Greg asked.

“What do you propose we do, Sergeant?  You can’t arrest him as we haven’t seen him doing anything wrong.”

“You could go talk to him.”  Greg suggested.

“It’s not that simple.  I have… a reputation among London’s dealers.  I’m a picky client.  My face is too well known.  If I approached him, he’d only become suspicious.  We’ll follow him when he moves.  See where he leads us.”

Awkward silence threatened to blossom, and Greg looked around for a conversation topic.  He latched onto the first thing that came to mind.

“Why are you picky?”  Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if to indicate that the question was ridiculous, so Greg refined it.  “I mean, you told me it isn’t about the high, just the stimulants.  So why worry about the quality of the drug you’re taking?”

“The quality of the high is connected chemically to the quality of the stimulation.  I’m picky precisely because I’m taking the drugs as stimulants.  Besides, higher quality drugs are safer.  They aren’t laced with all the add-ins that killed those kids in our last case.”

Greg turned that over in his mind.  For some reason he kept returning to Sherlock’s last three words… _our last case_.  That implied there would be future cases too.

“You know you could join the force.”  Greg blurted.  “If you got clean, I mean.  You’re good enough to make detective quickly.”

“And deal with the rest of the Yard every day?”  Sherlock questioned.  “I hardly think it’s worth it.  Besides even if I were inclined, the Yard hardly hires reformed drug addicts.  I’d never pass the security clearance.  Too many rules too.  I doubt I’d ever be able to properly conform to regulation.”

Greg had to concede on that point.  Still though, he was sure he was on to something.

“What about a private detective?  You wouldn’t need any sort of security clearance for that.”

Sherlock quirked one eyebrow before wrinkling them both.  He leaned forward and steepled his fingers under his chin, a look of interest plain on his face.  He seemed to consider for a moment, but when he spoke again, the intrigue had been wiped from his expression.

“Private detectives spend all their time chasing after cheating spouses.  I have better uses for my time.  I need _interesting_ cases.  You should understand.  You could have taken an easier job.  Like arresting burglars, but instead you chose to take on the mob bosses in the drugs division and chase down murderers in homicide.”

“And sometimes I regret that decision.”  Greg knew he sounded bitter.

Sherlock paused, briefly taking on another curious look, then spoke in a clinical tone.  “The intensity of your job is not the reason your wife cheated or left you.  Despite the long hours, you were a dedicated husband, and you still are a dedicated father.  You made a wrong decision, but not about your career, in which you thrive.  No, you simply chose the wrong person or perhaps you made the mistake of picking any person at all.  You opted to care, and your situation is a perfect example of why caring is not an advantage.”

Greg sat with his mouth open for a minute wondering if Sherlock really believed that.  Did the kid have no friends?  No family?  No one he cared about at all?  It must be horrible to have no one, Greg thought, but then he reconsidered.  His situation wasn’t so different, really.  He still had his children, true, but he didn’t see them often.  He was almost as alone as Sherlock.  Perhaps they needed each other.

No matter what Sherlock said.

Greg closed his mouth and tried to come up with a way to not-awkwardly express what he was thinking, but before he had a chance to speak, Sherlock jumped up.

“He’s moving, let’s go.”

They abandoned their coffees as one and raced out the door.  Sherlock managed the exit gracefully, but Greg knocked over at least one chair in the rush.  Outside, Sherlock turned right and slowed to a fast walk, somehow managing to close the distance between them and their target while still blending in with the crowd.  Greg stayed on his heels.

They wove through pedestrians for three blocks, turned left, continued for another five blocks, and then took a right.  Just around the last corner, their quarry disappeared into a first-floor apartment, and Sherlock ducked into the alley.

“What are we doing?”  Greg whispered.

“We can reasonably assume that that man is Adam Lang, our murderer, but we don’t have enough evidence to arrest him, let alone convict him.  Now that we know where he lives, however, we can get everything we need.  A murder weapon in the bins perhaps?”  Sherlock turned to the heaps of trash in front of them.

Greg steeled himself.  Going through rubbish piles was normally forensics’ responsibility, but let no man ever say that Greg Lestrade had a weak constitution.  He pulled on his gloves.

They dove in, pulling bags open and digging through the contents.  Rotting food, old nappies, and all other sorts of foul trappings presented themselves for their perusal.  Just as Greg came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be found here, Sherlock spoke.

“Oh.”

Though Greg had heard that sound come from Sherlock before, it had never sounded quite like this.  The triumph of revelation was smothered in something decidedly darker, and Greg was afraid to turn around.

“Not a murder weapon.”  Sherlock continued.  “You better take a look, Lestrade.  This is a body.”

Greg took a deep breath and turned.  What Sherlock was looking at could hardly be called ‘a body.’  ‘Pieces of a body’ might be more accurate.  The head was visible at the top of the pile, slashed into an unrecognizable mass.  Only its roughly spherical shape indicated that it might be a head at all.  The rest of the body lay in tattered pieces below it.  Greg fought down the bile bubbling in his throat.

“I need to see inside the apartment.”  Sherlock said.

“What?”  Greg asked.  “I think this is enough evidence right here, Sherlock.”

“It’s enough evidence to prove that Nadya is dead and that someone murdered her.  It’s not enough to prove who.  It may not even be enough to get a warrant for a particular apartment.  I need to see inside if we’re going to convict Lang.”

“We can’t just walk in without a warrant.  This is serious.  It could compromise the entire investigation.”

“Then stay here.”  Sherlock said.

“What?”  Greg asked again.

“Stay here while I take a look.  I’m not a cop.  I’ll pretend to be selling something.”

“Lang is inside.  It’s too dangerous for you to go in alone.”  Greg said.

“If I call for help, then you have a legal reason to enter.”

Greg closed his eyes.  He knew Sherlock could read all the tension and reluctance from his face, but he didn’t care.  Sherlock’s logic might be sound, but he really didn’t understand the whole ‘spirit of the law’ thing.  Greg took one minute to desperately hope that he wouldn’t get fired for this before nodding once.  “Go on then.  I’ll follow behind and wait around the corner.”

Greg hid around the side of the building.  He couldn’t see the door, but he’d be able to hear the conversation.  Sherlock looked around the corner to see that he was in place and then knocked.

Lang opened the door a couple minutes later.

“Good afternoon, sir.”  Sherlock said in an overtly friendly voice.  “Can I interest you in a newspaper subscription?  First three months are free.”

“Not interested.”  Lang replied.

Greg heard the door squeak as Lang started to close it and then a thump.  Greg could just imagine Sherlock’s hand hitting the door to keep it open.

“Oh, but please do consider it, sir.  It’s a very good deal.  A one-time special offer.”  Sherlock’s voice was now muffled slightly, and Greg thought he had probably pushed his way into the apartment.

“I said I’m not interested.  What are you doing?”  Lang sounded angry now.

“I’m sorry, sir, but… is this blood on the floor?”  Sherlock asked.

The next second seemed to freeze as Greg waited for Lang to react.  Then, the door slammed, trapping Sherlock inside with the killer.  _Shit_.

Greg grabbed his phone first and dialed quickly.  “I need backup now!  Gibson Street.”

He hung up without another word, confident in the Yard to get there.

“Anytime you want to help is good!”  Sherlock yelled from behind the door.

At that, Greg turned the handle and pushed in.  Lang hadn’t bothered to lock it.

Sherlock and Lang were grappling on the floor.  Sherlock lay on his back with a knife pressed to his throat.  Greg didn’t hesitate.  He dove at Lang, pushing him off Sherlock and onto the floor.  The knife slashed out at him, but he managed to roll away before it made contact.  Sherlock lunged and pinned Lang to the floor.  A split second later, Greg pinned his arm and wrested the knife from him to the sound of approaching sirens.

“I’m arresting you for murder and assault with a deadly weapon.  You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.  Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”  Greg snapped the cuffs in place and hauled Lang up to meet the backup outside.

The scene was already buzzing with activity.  He was pleased to note that a few officers had already taped off the alley where the body was stashed.  He was feeling pretty good about the whole thing, but then again he was not prepared for backup to take the shape of a very clearly livid Donovan.

Another officer took custody of Lang from Greg, and Greg relinquished the prisoner to reluctantly face Sally.

“What the hell happened?  We get assigned a case together, and you fucking disappear!  And the next thing I know, I’m getting called in to provide urgent backup because some psycho is attacking you with a knife!  Care to explain?”

“I really can explain, Sally.  It’s just I got a tip-off from…”  Greg turned to gesture at Sherlock, but the man was nowhere to be seen.  “Wait.  Where is he?  He was right here!”

One of the neighbors who had peeked outside at the commotion spoke up.  “You mean the newspaper salesman?  He ran off.  Disappeared down the street as soon as he left the flat.”

Greg’s mouth fell open.  Of course.  He should have expected this.  Sherlock seemed to always choose to do whatever would make the paperwork the most miserably difficult for Greg.  Catch a serial killer in one day, and get rewarded with a ton of work, an angry partner, and a missing witness.  He and Sherlock were going to discuss this habit of disappearing before their next case.

Giving up, Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys before remembering that his car was at the prison.  He then spent the entire ride back to his car wondering when Sherlock had put the keys back in his pocket.


	7. The Bellstaff

Greg crammed the biggest tree he could into his apartment that year on Christmas Eve.  He hauled out the boxes of faerie lights and glittery ornaments and decorated it perfectly too.  He even made the popcorn garland that Angie loved so much.  He did it miserably and with much grumbling, but he did it.

Every other year since they were born, Angie and Alex had helped Greg find the perfect tree and decorate it the day before Christmas.  Then he and his wife would sit up half the night wrapping presents.

Well, this year his kids would still get their tree, even if they weren’t here to decorate it.  They’d be here in the morning, and Greg was not about to disappoint them.  Two small mountains of presents were already wrapped in shining paper and bright-colored bows.  His ex would almost certainly chew him out for spoiling them, and she wouldn’t be wrong.  Half his paycheck had gone to those gifts.

One box sat apart from the others, however.  Unsure whether or not he should wrap it, Greg had settled on plain brown paper.  Then feeling that it looked somehow second-rate, he had used a beautiful, silk, red and green ribbon to tie it off.  The effect was classier than the melodramatic piles for the kids, which satisfied Greg for some reason. 

Still, it looked lonely sitting by itself, so when the tree was completely finished and the stockings filled, Greg placed it carefully between Angie and Alex’s stacks, two words visible on the paper in Greg’s neat writing.

_To Sherlock._

If he ever even saw Sherlock again that was.  It had been nearly three months without a peep.

Greg stared at the package for a few seconds morosely, then checked his watch.  Barely a quarter past noon.  What was he supposed to do alone, on Christmas Eve?

He had tried to work today.  Hopkins had all but forced him to go home and ‘be with his family.’  Of all the days for Hopkins to decide that Greg shouldn’t be working overtime, he just had to pick the loneliest day of the year.

He glanced over at his liquor cabinet.  A glass of whiskey might speed up the evening’s progress a bit.  Not that drinking alone was a particularly _healthy_ choice.  Greg knew that.  But still, being alone was never easy during the holidays.  A temporary crutch wouldn’t really hurt.

Greg walked over to the liquor cabinet and looked inside.  Empty.

Well, Tesco’s was still open.  Probably packed with holiday meal-makers, but open.  Greg snagged his coat from the hook by the door and his keys from the small end-table and headed out.

Half an hour later, he returned clutching a brown paper bag of whiskey, his mood unimproved by the atrocious crowds.  He promised himself again while climbing the stairs to his flat that if he could just get through the next few hours, he would be with his kids.

Greg pushed open the door and nearly dropped the bottle of whiskey.  There, in his ratty, old armchair, sat Sherlock Holmes.

His lap was strewn with the remains of the brown wrapping paper, and he sat staring down, dumbfounded, at the gift.  His hands held it part-way out of the box, a very-nearly black Bellstaff overcoat.  He looked up as Greg entered and cleared his throat.

“It said it was for me.”  He offered by way of explanation, as if he felt compelled to explain why he had opened his present, but not why he was in Greg’s flat to begin with.

“It was.  It is.  For you, I mean.”  Greg answered.

Sherlock looked back at him wide-eyed, like a child unsure if he’d broken a rule.  As he stood, the wrappings fluttered unceremoniously to the ground.  He spun the coat around him and draped it gracefully over his shoulders.  Greg breathed a sigh of relief to see that it was the perfect fit.  Guessing sizes had never really been his forte.

“This was expensive.”  Sherlock said looking at the sleeves.

Greg shrugged.  “Eh it wasn’t so much.  What else would I spend the money on anyway?”

Sherlock stared at him for another minute, taking off the coat and draping it over the arm of the chair while Greg tried to work out the best way to ask what he was doing here without grossly offending him.  He was, after all, honestly happy to see the kid.  Greg opened his mouth, but was shocked into silence by Sherlock’s next words.

“Thank you.”

If it took Greg a bit longer than normal to respond, it was only because it seemed almost unnatural to hear those words spoken in that voice and with such sincerity.  “You’re welcome.”

And with that, the mood in the room shifted dramatically.  Sherlock flopped back into the chair confidently, propped his feet of the coffee table, and said.  “You want to know why I’m here.”

Greg almost said ‘yes,’ but the sight of Sherlock sitting so self-assuredly in his chair after breaking into his flat triggered the oddest sense of déjà vu.  And then Greg remembered.  The stranger.  The one in the pinstriped suite who had wanted information of Sherlock.

“You don’t by any chance know some posh bloke who’s fond of pinstriped suits and overly attached to his brolly, do you?”  Greg demanded.

Sherlock’s eyes immediately narrowed.  “I should have known he wouldn’t stay out of this for long.  When did you two meet?”

“July.  After the Parker case.  Who is he?”

“According to him, a minor government official.  In reality, he’s probably the most powerful man you’ve ever met.”  Sherlock said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Greg asked.

“He’s running the country.  Someone has to carry out the orders from on high.  Think of him as the Queen’s executor.  And the Prime Minister’s for that matter.”

“So what does he want with you?”

“He’s been trying to recruit me for some time now.”  Sherlock said.

“Any particular reason you haven’t taken him up on the offer?  You’d be good at it, you could use the money, and he doesn’t seem the type to take ‘no’ for an answer easily.”

“Oh, he’s not.  That’s why being told ‘no’ is so good for him.  Perhaps you didn’t notice, but I doubt he could get more pretentious if someone stuck that umbrella up his arse.”

Greg’s lips twitched up into a smile.  He tried to refrain from laughing, but lost it when Sherlock returned his grin.  It took a few minutes to regain their composure after that.

Sherlock glanced down at the bag still clutched in Greg’s right fist.  “Planning on drinking away your loneliness this Christmas Eve, Sergeant?”

Greg considered lying, but Sherlock would know either way.  Besides, Sherlock was his friend.  Right?  He would worry later about wondering when that had happened.  For now, he was going to enjoy the company.

“That was the plan, but I didn’t account for your unexpected arrival.”  Greg walked over and pulled two glasses from the liquor cabinet.  “What do you say to a drink?”

Greg poured out generous doses for each of them and sat down on the sofa.  Sherlock took his, looking wary, and cautiously sipped at it.

“So this guy-“  Greg started, leaning forward.  “Mister British Government.  He’s trying to recruit you, but how do you even know him?  You two aren’t exactly running in the same social circles.”

“You might be surprised.  I’ve known him a very long time.”

Greg’s curiosity piqued at that.  “An old schoolmate?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t respond.  Abruptly, he pulled his feet from the table and leaned his elbows on his knees mimicking Greg.  “Tell me, Lestrade.  Are you really so desperate as to turn to liquor to get you through today?”

Greg was so taken aback by the sudden change of subject that all he could do was gape.  Was Sherlock avoiding discussing the mystery man for some reason?  Why?  Unfortunately, Greg’s brief delay in responding to Sherlock’s question gave the kid another opening.

“I can think of a better way to distract you from the holiday.  Tell me about the dead businessmen.”

Greg had no desire to be derailed from finding out what Sherlock knew about Brolly Man, but neither did he want to discuss his desire for alcohol.  A string of recent homicides seemed a good enough compromise.  Sherlock would be happy, and Greg would probably have the case solved today.  Win-win.

“We thought the first guy was a suicide to begin with.  It was staged that way – him hanging from a rope – but it didn’t make sense.  Suicides can be unexpected, so the fact that he wasn’t depressed didn’t set off too many alarms, but there were weird signs that something else was wrong.  The flat was tidy, nothing broken or anything, but there were scratches on the floor, like someone had dug their fingernails in and been dragged across it.  There were fingerprints too.  Not his or his wife’s.  Didn’t match any of their friends either.  And one of his teeth was missing.”

“He struggled.”  Sherlock concluded.

“Yes.  And there’ve been four more since.  Two and three were the same.  Suicide by hanging by appearance, but always something wrong.  After that, the staging stopped.  They were just dead.  Strangled with the same rope that the others were hung with.”

“And the coroner’s reports?”  Sherlock asked.

“Confirmed everything.”  Greg said.  “The first three were dead before they were strung up.  Do you want to see the bodies?”

Sherlock thought for a moment.  “No.  I want to see their homes.”

He was on his feet in an instant.  He took two steps toward the door, and Greg steeled himself for another wild chase.  Sherlock turned back with one hand on the doorknob.  He reached back to the chair and took hold of the coat.  A strange look came over his face as he wrapped it around himself, and Greg wondered what he was thinking.

Sherlock fastened the buttons and then turned to look at Greg as he flipped his collar up.  “Coming?”

Greg followed Sherlock down the stairs, watching the Bellstaff billow like a cape.  They climbed into a cab, and Greg directed the driver to New Scotland Yard.

“I’m not supposed to be at work today.”  Greg admitted.  “My boss already sent me home for the holiday.  He’ll be suspicious if he catches me in the office again.”

“Well then, we best not get caught.”  Sherlock smiled.

The car pulled up to the Yard, and Greg paid the driver.  Sherlock led the way through the revolving doors and up to the front desk.  Greg caught up a moment later and flashed his badge.

“He’s with me.  We just need to run up to my office real quick.”  Greg explained to the guard on duty.

The guard nodded them through, and they passed through the security gate.  Greg turned left toward the elevators.  Sherlock, however, turned right.

“Anyone could corner us on the elevator.  If you want to avoid your boss, the stairs are our best bet.”  Sherlock said.

Greg turned around and headed back to the stairs, resigning himself to the four flight trek.  Once they reached the landing, they headed left down the corridor, Greg leading the way to his office.  A few paces down the hall, Sherlock grabbed Greg’s arm and forced him through a door to their right.

“Sherlock, what are you-?”  Greg started.

“Shh.”

A moment later, footsteps passed by outside the cracked door, and Greg peered through the crevice.  The red head of Detective Inspector Hopkins cast a shadow across them as they waited for him to disappear around the corner.

“Let’s go.”  Sherlock whispered, and they moved out into the hall.

“How did you know he was coming?”  Greg asked, moving quickly towards his office.

“I didn’t.  I knew _someone_ was coming.  The elevator.  It dings when it reaches each floor.  You had already mentioned he was in today.  On Christmas Eve, not many people are here, so it was highly likely to be him.  Even if it hadn’t been, I doubted you want to run into anyone else either while you’re with me.”

Greg didn’t waste time responding.  Sherlock was right, of course, but he didn’t need Greg to confirm it, and they were in a hurry.  They moved into the office.  Sherlock opened the case file on Greg’s desk, flipped through it, read over one particular page at least twice, and then put it back exactly as it had been.

“Got it.  Let’s go.”  Sherlock said.

Greg supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock could simply memorize what information he needed so quickly, but his mouth still dropped open.  Sherlock was halfway out the door by the time Greg composed himself enough to follow.

They hurried down the hall and disappeared into the stairwell just as Hopkins reappeared from around the corner.  Greg was certain Hopkins had seen them, but the DI had his nose buried in a case file and walked by without a second glance.

Greg and Sherlock escaped New Scotland Yard and slid back into a cab.  When the driver asked “Where to?”  Greg scrambled to remember even one of the addresses.

“Umm, Kensington.  The Earl’s Court Metro Station.”  He said.

“No.  The place in Knightsbridge is closer.”  Sherlock corrected.

Greg marveled for a moment that Sherlock had not only memorized all the addressed, but could mentally map them instantaneously.  He could put google maps out of business.

They pulled up outside the house in Knightsbridge, but Sherlock didn’t leave the cab.  He looked at the expensive house for a few minutes out the window and then directed the cabbie on to the next house.  They circled through the city, looking at all the victims’ homes before stopping at the last one near Leicester Square. 

Sherlock exited the cab, and Greg followed.  They stared up at another of London’s impressive homes.

“This is wrong.”  Sherlock said.  “These men weren’t CEOs.  They were average salesmen, accountants, one junior lawyer.  They worked for average businesses, not fortune 500 companies.  Where did they get the money for all this?”

“Living beyond their means?”  Greg suggested.

“Debt is a valid motive for suicide perhaps, but not murder.”  Sherlock said.

Greg thought for a moment.  “Insurance.  Think about it.  A group of middle class couples living beyond their means could reasonably know each other.  They’re all in debt, all stressed.  The wives decide to fix the problem.  They take out life insurance for their husbands and then murder them.  They’re out of debt, and we’re standing here trying to figure out who killed their husbands.”

Sherlock looked at him.  “We have no evidence to support that theory, other than the fact that we also have no evidence to contradict it.  If we want to know, we need to go inside.”

“No, Sherlock.  Just, no.  We cannot break and enter.  I’ve been in so much trouble for being inside without a warrant on both the other cases you helped with.  I will arrest you before I let you blunder in again.  Especially since, like you said, we have no evidence to suggest the poor, recently-widowed woman who lives here did anything.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and threw his hands up.  “How am I supposed to get evidence then?”

“We could always get the policies from their insurance companies.”  Greg suggested.

Sherlock’s stroppy attitude immediately vanished.  “Excellent.  Let’s go.”

“Hold up, there.  It’s nearly six o’clock on Christmas Eve.  The insurance offices aren’t open.”

Sherlock sighed again.  “Then what do you propose we do?”

Greg smiled.  “I propose that you and I go home and eat dinner.  This case will still be here after Christmas.”

Sherlock pouted. 

He pouted while Greg struggled to hail a cab.  He pouted during the cab ride.  He pouted while Greg cooked dinner.  And he pouted when Greg set a plate in front of him.  But he ate every bite.

After pudding, Sherlock sat at the table trying valiantly to continue pouting despite being well-fed for the first time in clearly a long while.

“Listen.”  Greg started.  “It’s cold.  And it’s Christmas.  Stay for the night.  You can have a shower, and I’ll fix up the couch.”

Sherlock looked wary.  “I really shouldn’t.”

“You really should.  For Christ’s sake, Sherlock.  It’s snowing!”

Sherlock stared at Greg with a curious expression on his face.  Greg felt oddly as though Sherlock were trying to read his mind.  Finally, Sherlock gave the tiniest of nods, rose, and disappeared into the bathroom.  The sound of the shower running prompted Greg to get up and find some blankets for the sofa.

When the water cut off again, Greg knocked twice and pushed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt through the cracked door.  Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, looking disconcertingly casual in Greg’s too short clothes.  He walked awkwardly to the couch and huddled under the blankets.  Unsure of what else to do, Greg flicked the lights off and headed to his room.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.  Just knock if you need anything.”


	8. Connected

Greg woke to a knock on his door.  It was still dark outside the window, so he sat up and glanced at the clock. 

Six thirty AM.  Christmas Day.  Sherlock - sleeping on his couch.

“What is it, Sherlock?”  He asked.

No one answered.

“Sherlock?”  Greg asked again.

The knock repeated itself, but Greg realized that the sound wasn’t coming from his bedroom door.  It was more distant, echoing from the front door.  So either Sherlock had somehow locked himself out of the flat or Lynn was here early with the kids.

Greg groaned and climbed out of bed.  He pulled on his bathrobe before traipsing out into the living room and opening the door. 

“Daddy!”  Angie cried.

She threw her arms around his legs as soon as the door was wide enough.

Alex, five years older than Angie, reacted more calmly.  “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, kiddos.  Come on in.”

“Ooh, presents!”  Angie yelled, and the two kids rushed past Greg to the piles of presents under the tree.

“Sorry, Greg.”  Lynn said.  “They were too excited to wait this morning.  I tried to call, but I think your phone is off.”

“Ah, yeah.  I must have forgotten to plug it in last night.”

“Do you have company?”  Lynn asked, looking past Greg to the sofa.

“Yeah.  It was sort of… unexpected.”  Greg glanced over his shoulder at the sofa and did a double-take.

The blankets and pillows lay askew, but Sherlock was gone.  Where did he vanish off to this time?

Greg struggled to come up with a reasonable excuse for his guest’s absence.  “Uh, an old friend needed a place to stay the night, but he caught an early train.  His family’s in Cardiff.”

Lynn looked satisfied.  “Right, okay well I’ve got to go.  My parents are waiting.  I’ll be back tonight to pick them up, and don’t feed them too many sweets.”

Greg watched his ex-wife turn to walk away before shutting the door.  He looked back at the disheveled sofa.  Wherever Sherlock was, Greg would worry about it later.  Right then, he was going to enjoy the mayhem of Christmas morning with his children.

 

* * *

 

By eight o’clock that evening Greg and Alex were finishing up their second helping of pudding while Angie slept on the sofa.  The flat was littered with the remains of present wrappings, and Greg was feeling pleasantly full and sleepy.  Lynn was on her way to get the kids, and then he was planning on a nightcap before bed.  Just a few more hours of rest before he had to get back to work.  Tomorrow he needed to start tracking down those insurance policies.  Maybe Sherlock would even turn up to help again.

Banging on the door roused Greg from his chair.  He was expecting Lynn to appear when he opened the door, but it was Sherlock who rushed inside.

He paced back and forth, waving some papers in his hands dramatically and ranting.

“I’ve got the policies.  This is fantastic; it doesn’t make any sense.  Insurance will barely cover funeral expenses for most of them.  None of them are big enough for this to be insurance fraud.  One of them didn’t even _have_ a life insurance policy.”

“Wait.  How can that be true?  Why are they dead then?  And how did you get those policies?”  Greg asked.

“Who’s dead, Daddy?”  Angie’s little voice interrupted.

Greg turned to see both his kids staring at him, rapt. 

Sherlock spun to face Angie on the sofa.  “People.  Who they were isn’t important.  What matters is why they’re dead.”

“Were they bad people?”  Angie asked.

“Of course not.  Don’t be stupid.”  Alex interrupted.  “The person who killed them is the bad one.  That’s why Dad’s looking for them.”

“Hey!  I’m not stupid!  They could have been bad people.  Sometimes the good guys have to kill the bad guys to save everyone else.”

Sherlock froze.  He tilted his head at Angie.

Alex opened his mouth to argue back, but Sherlock stepped between them.  He threw his hand up in a ‘halt’ gesture to Alex.

“Stop!  Don’t say anything!  _Think_.  What is it?  Not killed by a bad person, but killed because they were bad…”

Sherlock’s eyes widened into circles.  He turned slowly to face Greg.  “Do you see?”

Greg tried to piece together what it was Sherlock saw.  “You think they were criminals of some sort?”

“Yes.  You see?  I had it right, at least partially.  There was fraud, but it wasn’t the wives.  It wasn’t _insurance_ fraud.  They were defrauding their businesses, stealing from the companies.”

“So the business owners offed them, then?”  Greg asked.

“All coincidentally around the same time and in the same way?”  Sherlock replied.  “No.  Either the business owners all hired the same man or…”

Greg felt his mouth fall open as it clicked into place.  “Or someone else did.  We never caught the guy who hired Lang.  You think this is more vigilante justice?”

“Yes.  Though whoever is behind it probably hired someone new to do the dirty work this time too.”

“How do we find them?”  Greg asked.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “I need to see the bodies now.”

“Who’s this then?”  A voice from the still-open doorway asked.

Greg turned to see Lynn looking into the flat with a suspicious expression.  Greg said “a friend” at the same moment that Sherlock said “a colleague.”  Sherlock looked momentarily taken aback, but proffered his hand to Lynn all the same.

“Sherlock Holmes.”  He said.  “Lestrade and I do work together.  I was actually hoping for his assistance tonight.”

“On Christmas?”  Lynn asked incredulously.

“Yes.  Unfortunately, criminals don’t take holidays, unlike real-estate agents.”

“Real-estate… I see Greg has been talking about me.”  Lynn accused.

“Hardly.”  Sherlock glanced down at her bare legs.  “Varicose veins suggest a profession that requires a lot of standing.  Now that might mean retail, but your shoes tell a different story.  Unlike your dress, those aren’t for special occasions only; you wear them frequently based on the deterioration pattern.  They’re heels though; not exactly the type of shoes most retail employees wear.  That means you’re a professional.  Now what type of professional might spend enough time on their feet to cause varicose veins?  Real-estate agent.  Showing houses.”

Lynn stood with her mouth slightly open.

“And yes, I can read your personal life in your appearance just as easily.”  Sherlock said.  Greg snickered.

“Funny.”  Lynn responded sarcastically.  “Very funny.  You and your friend are very clever, Greg.  Come on, kids.  We’re leaving.”

“But Mom, Dad and Sherlock are going to solve a murder.  Can’t we stay?”  Alex complained.

“Yeah Mom, please.”  Angie whined. 

Lynn glared at Greg.  “Why do you put these ridiculous ideas into their heads?  No, you can’t stay.  We’re going to Grandma and Grandpa’s.  Come on.”

Angie and Alex looked disappointed, but Greg silently agreed with their mother.  A murder investigation was no place for children.  Lynn continued to glare while Greg helped the kids gather up their gifts and wrap up against the cold.  He hugged them each tight, promised to see them soon, and then sent them on their way.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Greg turned to Sherlock standing, stiffly and awkwardly, by the Christmas tree.

“I… apologize if I was… indiscreet.”  Sherlock muttered.  “Your ex-wife is…”

“An utterly obnoxious tramp?”  Greg suggested.

“Well, all the evidence certainly suggests so.”  Sherlock said, not a hint of apology in his voice.

Greg couldn’t help it.  He cracked a smile.  Sherlock followed, and the two of them started laughing.

“So, to the morgue?”  Greg asked, regaining his composure.

“Yes.”  Sherlock said.  “To the morgue.”

 

* * *

 

The cab pulled up outside St. Bart’s, and Greg climbed out.  He entered the passcode and pushed the door to the deserted morgue hall open.  Sherlock followed him in, as Greg punched the button to turn on the lights.

Two minutes later, one of the refrigerator drawers clanged open, and Greg peeled back the sheet covering the stiff.  Sherlock peered down at the middle-aged man.  He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and leaned in, examining every inch.  Taking a pair of tweezers from a nearby metal cart, Sherlock carefully plucked something from the man’s hair.

“What is it?”  Lestrade asked.

“Just a piece of the rope.  Presumably you have more?”

“Yeah.  Some of it’s stored with his clothes.”  Greg said.

“Bring it to me.”  Sherlock said.  “And unlock the lab.”

Greg opened the lab for Sherlock first, then went to retrieve the bag of the victim’s clothes.  When he returned, Sherlock was already bent over a microscope.

“It’s hemp.”  He said without looking up.  “Not terribly unusual, but it’s also dyed.  I’ll need a bigger piece to determine the type of dye and an internet connection to figure out where it came from.”

Greg wondered how knowing where the rope came from could really help them, but he was too damn tired to ask questions at that point.  After making sure Sherlock was set, Greg wandered out of the hospital in search of coffee.  He returned to find Sherlock surrounded by beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks and scribbling away in his notebook.

Greg set a coffee down next to Sherlock, along with a couple sugar packets and one of those tiny creamers; he had no idea how the kid took his coffee.

He sat down to wait in a spare chair.  Sherlock worked in silence, eventually drinking the coffee with both sugars, and Greg watched. It was oddly peaceful.  Sherlock moved less frantically about the lab than he did anywhere else that Greg had seen him.  He was methodical, scientific, even calm.  Greg let the quiet wash over him.  He alternated between watching the snow drifting down outside the window and watching Sherlock mix chemicals, conducting unknown experiments to determine the exact type of dye. 

Greg didn’t remember much from high school chemistry, but he suspected this would take a while; might as well get comfortable.  He propped his feet on a lab stool and leaned back in the chair.

Greg woke up to someone shaking his shoulder, not remembering having fallen asleep.  He jumped when he opened his eyes to see Sherlock leaning over him.

“What time is it?”  Greg asked blearily.

“Just after six in the morning.  I found the manufacturer of the rope.  We can hopefully get transaction records from them.  Then I’ll need access to the police credit card databases.  Our murderer might have used cash, but if not, his card number will give him away.  Let’s go.”

Greg pried himself up and felt his back and knees crack.  Christ, he was too old to be sleeping in chairs.

Then again, Sherlock hadn’t slept at all as far as Greg could tell, and he seemed just fine.

“Where is this place?”  Greg asked.

“The Green Rope Company.  Out in Crawley.  They’re wholesale.  Direct from factory to consumers via the internet.  An efficient business model, really.  No need for store fronts or social niceties.”  Sherlock answered as they made their way out of the hospital.  “We’ll need to get a train.”

Sherlock’s patience stretched just far enough to allow Greg to grab a coffee before they boarded a train at Victoria Station, but Greg suspected that was only due to the fact that there were ten minutes before the next train left.  After that, it was almost an hour ride, during which Sherlock seemed deep in thought.

The Green Rope Company’s manufacturing plant was a large, red-brick building, humming with the friendly churn of machinery.  The plant’s brawny foreman came to greet them after Greg flashed his badge to the security guard.

Greg offered a hand to the young man.  “Morning.  I’m Sergeant Lestrade of Scotland Yard.  This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one of our consultants.”

“Nick Reynolds.  Nice to meet you.”  The foreman answered, taking Greg’s hand.  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We may need to speak to an owner.”  Greg explained.  “We’re hoping to get some transaction records.  We could get a warrant, but that’s time consuming, and we’re trying to catch a killer.”

Reynolds’ eyebrows furrowed, but he took the purpose of their visit in stride.  “Well, you’re in luck.  I am the owner.  Or one of them, at least.  My brothers and I run it together.  We’re happy to help the police in any way we can.  What dates do you need the records for?”

“The beginning of October up through last week.”  Sherlock answered promptly.

“Alright.”  Reynolds nodded.  “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll bring them out.”

It was a huge list.  Hundreds of transactions had taken place over the last three months, and Greg’s heart sank when he realized he would probably be spending his New Year’s trawling through them all to cross reference every card number to the database.  Sherlock, however had a different idea.

He spent the entire train ride back – and the cab ride from Victoria Station to New Scotland Yard – bent over the list with a pen in hand.  It took Greg nearly twenty minutes of watching him to realize he was correlating dates – when the rope needed to be purchased and shipped in order to execute the murders in the given time frame – along with the amounts.  It was genius, and as the cab pulled up outside the Yard, Sherlock stopped and pointed at a number.

“This is the one.  Run it.  See what else this guy’s bought and find out who he is.”

Greg raced into the Yard, which was still mostly deserted on Boxing Day, and booted up his computer.  He didn’t even bother sitting, but just leaned over the desk with Sherlock standing behind him.  Within minutes, he pulled up the profile of one Terrence Hawkins, and there – in black and white on his screen – was all the evidence they needed for a warrant.  The rope purchases coincided perfectly, each one week to the day from the murders, and on the same days the same card had been used to purchase industrial cleaning supplies.

“Give me one hour.  I’ll get a warrant.”  Greg said, and he picked up the telephone to make some calls.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, one hour later Greg was on his way to Hawkins’ apartment with Sherlock.  Well, Sherlock and half a dozen other police officers. 

Donovan sat in the back seat, glaring at Greg in the rear-view mirror.  She had been utterly shocked to find one of their previous drug busts consulting on a homicide case, and she still wasn’t particularly happy about it now.  She had threatened to call DI Hopkins.  Greg wasn’t sure he believed her threat, but he was glad Hopkins was on holiday till New Year’s anyway. 

For once, Greg stood back to watch while Donovan and the rest of her team knocked on Hawkins’ door.  A surprisingly stodgy, balding man answered.

“Mr. Hawkins?”  Donovan asked.  “You’re under arrest for the murder of…”

Hawkins darted back into the flat.  He made for the window, clearly hoping to exit via the fire escape, but Donovan grabbed him round the knees, bringing him down easily.  Another constable clapped cuffs over his hands, and Sally continued reading him his rights.  A surprisingly easy arrest, all things considered.  Now they just had to process the apartment.

As Donovan and the other officer were carting off Hawkins, the new forensics lead – Anderson, Greg remembered – stepped forward.  “It will just take a couple hours to get this scene processed, sir.”

“A couple hours?”  Sherlock asked.  “Everything important can be seen standing right here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Anderson bristled.

“One of the cabinets in the kitchen is open.  White rings on the shelf – bleach was stored there.  The extra rope is also lying on the shelf.  Test it.  It will match, and the volume will account for the remainder of Hawkins’ credit card order.  And finally, if all that wasn’t damning enough, there’s always the pile of cash on the coffee table.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”  Anderson asked.

“He was a hired killer.  Paid in untraceable funds – cash by necessity.  Do keep up.”

Anderson’s face had turned red, and he was positively seething.

Greg intervened.  “Alright.  That’s enough.  Anderson, it has to be processed either way, so see if you can find anything else.  Sherlock, I need an official statement before you go.”

Anderson complied, grumbling about Sherlock, and Sherlock followed Greg back to the police cruiser to make his statement.  He fidgeted impatiently like he was itching to leave, while Greg wrote down all the necessary details, but when he was done, before he disappeared off into the night, he turned back to Greg.

“It’s not over, you realize.  Hawkins and Lang are connected.  Someone is doing an excellent job of hiding from us.  I’ll be in touch.”

And with a dramatic whirl of his coat, Sherlock vanished into the shadows once again.

Greg sank down into the driver’s seat.  He would head to his office, file the paperwork, and then take the next couple of days off before Hopkins got back.

He walked into his office less than an hour later and flicked on the light switch.  His chair squeaked as he sat down to log in to his computer, but before his hands touched the keyboard, he glimpsed something shiny on his desk.

It was a disk – a DVD.  Just lying there.  Did one of the other officers leave it for him?  Why wasn’t it labeled?

Suddenly suspicious, Greg popped the case open carefully, and slid it into his computer.  He ran the virus scanner before opening the file on it.  A CCTV video came up on Greg’s screen.  Hawkins was there, recognizable from his paunchy belly and shiny head.  He was meeting someone outside a London restaurant, shaking hands with him like it was a business deal.  The second man’s face wasn’t clear from the grainy footage, but his vividly red hair stood out to Greg.

He recalled what Owing had said about the man who had hired Lang.  _“One day, this red-headed fellow approached me_ _…”_

Someone else knew what was going on.  Someone had left him a clue.  The only question was, _who._


	9. Too Close to the Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Dammitjimimadoctor for refraining from correcting my (poor) pharmaceutical knowledge and @Pushthegodamnbutton for refraining from correcting my (non-existent) knowledge of the criminal justice system or chemistry. Google can only teach me so much.

No new cases rolled in between Christmas and New Year’s.  Greg had little to do and so he became fairly obsessed with the mysterious CCTV recording.  He asked everyone he knew – and a few people he didn’t – if they knew the source of the disk.  He checked the Yard’s own CCTV footage to see who had entered the building.  He even dusted the disk and case for fingerprints personally.

But no one knew who had left it on Greg’s desk.  The Yard’s CCTV footage from that entire day was mysteriously missing.  And the only fingerprints Greg found were his own.

Greg couldn’t help but feel that whoever had left the disk also knew more about the person who hired Lang and Hawkins than the film had divulged.  That information could be critical in preventing more deaths.  Greg needed to find the person.

The problem was that very few people had access to CCTV.  The individuals in the film could request a copy, as could the owner of the property at which a camera pointed.  The only other people who could have accessed the film were all government authorities, and Greg was certain this didn’t come from within the Yard.

Scotland Yard had procedures for this kind of thing.  Police officers had to file paperwork to get the footage, and Greg had checked the files for a request that matched.  It didn’t exist.  So either another government body was also interested in the murder cases, or someone else entirely didn’t mind breaking rules to get it.

Somehow Greg suspected Sherlock.  Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have cared how illegal it was for him to have the recording.  He was also smart enough to magically deduce his way into finding the correct one amongst the thousands of hours of footage, but there were two flaws in that theory.  First, how did a homeless person even begin to get access to CCTV?  And second, when did Sherlock have time to get the disk and put in on Greg’s desk?  He had been with Greg all day on both Christmas Eve and Boxing Day.

But, then again, it was Sherlock.  Greg still didn’t understand how Sherlock had gotten hold of the insurance policies of the dead businessmen – on Christmas Day, no less.  Perhaps he secured the CCTV footage at the same time.  As for getting the disk onto Greg’s desk, well, Greg had taken Sherlock up to his office himself, hadn’t he?  Twice, even.  A little sleight of hand and the distraction of solving the case, and Greg felt certain Sherlock could have placed the disk for him to find later.

After nearly a week with no other hints as to the origin of the tape, Greg accepted that it had been Sherlock and moved on.

Despite his minor obsession with the disk, Greg did manage to finish all the paperwork from the strangler case by New Year’s Eve.  He hit ‘submit’ on the last report, feeling awfully proud of himself, just before noon.  He actually had the afternoon and all day New Year’s off, and he was thoroughly looking forward to it.

He stood and reached for his coat when his phone rang.  Damn.

He seriously considered just not answering it and letting some other sergeant take on whatever the caller wanted, but he knew that if he did that, Hopkins would never let him hear the end of it.  He sighed and answered the bloody phone.

“Lestrade?  It’s Donovan.  Drugs has a couple bodies down at Bart’s.  I think you should come take a look; the autopsies are weird.  I’d be willing to bet that these are murders.”

Greg’s eyebrows crinkled in confusion.  “Are you sure?  Accidental overdose isn’t uncommon.  Or maybe someone’s selling something cut with fillers again?”

“Blood tests came back positive for bromethalin.”  Donovan answered.

Greg scanned his mental list of common poisons leftover from the police academy.  “Rat poison?  Are you sure?”

“Yes.  But drugs wants to call them overdoses and close the case.  We need someone from homicide to stop them.”

Greg sighed.  So much for having New Year’s off.  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

 

* * *

  

When the doors of the morgue at St. Bart’s clattered open to admit Greg, Dr. Molly Hooper was standing at the head of a body, reading from a clipboard, while Donovan, Anderson, and DI Gregson stood at the foot.  All four of them looked up as he entered.

Greg’s phone beeped.  A quick glance at the screen showed a text from an unknown number, so Greg didn’t bother to open it.  If anyone really needed him, they would call anyway.

“What’s it look like, Dr. Hooper?”  Greg asked.

“Oh!”  She looked quite surprised to be addressed so quickly.  “Well, on the surface it looks like a classic overdose.  They both tested positive for amphetamines, so meth would be the usual assumption.  I only became suspicious because the second came in so soon after the first.  I mean, we get plenty of overdoses, but two in the same week at the same hospital from the same drug?  It just seemed odd.  That’s why I ran tests for poison.  When they came back positive, I called the police back in.”

“And they’re both positive for bromethalin?”  Greg asked.

“Yes.”  She confirmed.

“What do you think, Lestrade?  Homicide or overdose?”  Gregson asked.

Before Greg could answer, his phone beeped again.  He ignored it.

“Well…”  Greg hedged.  “I don’t-“

His phone beeped again, and he pulled it from his pocket with an annoyed huff.  Three new text messages.

**Two homeless men dead.  Apparent methamphetamine overdoses.  SH** 12:31

**Actually murdered - poisoned most likely.  Request to see bodies immediately.  SH** 12:32

**On my way to Bart** **’s now.  Call them and tell them to let me in if you** **’re not already there.  ETA 12:45.  SH** 12:38

SH could only be ‘Sherlock Holmes.’  How the hell did he get Greg’s phone number?  Or a phone for that matter?

“Uh, sorry.”  Greg said, returning his phone to a pocket.  “Yes.  Homicides.  The poison does suggest they were killed deliberately.  No one uses bromethalin as a filler.”

“But why would anyone kill them?  They’re so ordinary.”  Anderson sneered.

“I don’t know why yet.  Right now I’m more concerned about who.  We need to find out who did this.  I’ve got a consultant on the way.  He knows a lot about drugs and poisons; he can help.  Take me through the rest of the autopsy in the meantime.”  Greg said.

Dr. Hooper bounced a bit as she filled Greg and the others in on the details.  Mostly it was a long list of all the tests that came back normal.  The men were healthy and young, if a bit on the thin side.  They seemed – as Anderson had said – truly ordinary.  Except they were drug addicts.

A thought prickled at the back of Greg’s mind.  They were drug addicts.  Drug _users_.  Criminals.  Murdered criminals.

And there it was.  Two criminals murdered with the same weapon fit the pattern of their vigilante perfectly.  Whoever had killed these two men had almost certainly been hired.  This was one more chance to catch the guy who was paying for all this.

“Have you got there yet?”  Sherlock’s rumbling voice asked from the doorway.

Anderson jumped in surprise and Donovan growled in protest, but Gregson merely looked interested in whatever Sherlock and Greg were about to discuss.

“It’s the same.”  Greg answered.  “As the prostitutes and the businessmen.  They’re just a different kind of criminal being murdered.  We’re looking for the same guy who hired Hawkins and Lang.”

One side of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up.  “Exactly.”

Sherlock set to work examining the bodies without asking permission.  While he dug through the victims’ clothes and read the autopsy reports, Greg turned to DI Gregson.

“Have the families been notified already?”  Greg asked quietly.  If they’d already been told it was an overdose, informing them that there was now a murder investigation surrounding their loved one would be messy.

“No.”  Gregson said.  “We don’t know who they are.”

Greg looked up curiously.

“They’re homeless, Lestrade.”  Gregson explained.  “They were found with packs and bedrolls in back alleyways.”

Greg frowned.  That could complicate the investigation.

“Who is he, Greg?”  Gregson asked, pointing to Sherlock.

“He’s a consultant.  He knows a lot about drugs.”

Gregson adopted a sly look.  “He’s that junkie you pulled in back when you were still on the drugs team, isn’t he?”  She continued when Greg didn’t immediately answer.  “This is a bad idea.  No matter how smart he is, he’s still an addict.”

“It’s not like he’s high now.  I have some common sense.”  Greg said defensively.

“Is he _not_ high now?”  Gregson asked.

Greg turned back to Sherlock, realizing with a jolt of discomfort that he couldn’t really tell.  Sherlock was always manic, always extreme.  He almost never slept.  Perhaps that was just the way he was.  But then, was anyone really, truly like that?  Suddenly, Sherlock’s personality – as Greg knew it at least – seemed more likely the result of near-constant cocaine use than of nature.

How was Greg ever going to convince him to stop using?

Greg looked down, deliberately avoiding Gregson’s gaze.  She understood why Greg had allowed Sherlock to come and help.  That much was clear in her tone.  Bad idea though she thought it was, Gregson wasn’t about to tell him to stop.  She trusted him to do what was right.

Guilt felt sour in Greg’s stomach.  He’d have to find a better solution, a more legal way to use Sherlock.

“It is bromethalin - rat poison.”  Sherlock snapped the latex gloves off his hands as he strode over to them.  “They aren’t actually positive for methamphetamine though.”

“What?”  Greg’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion.  “Molly said-“

“Yes.  There is a drug in their systems that closely mimics meth, but isn’t.”  Sherlock explained.  “Both of these men were on methadone.  They were recovering addicts.”

“But wait.”  Greg said.  “If they weren’t actually addicts, this doesn’t fit the pattern.  Our killer has been out to get criminals, not recovered criminals.”

“I doubt someone with strong enough ideologies to be driven to murder would see a difference.  The homeless have never been looked upon kindly anyway.  They are often seen as a breeding ground for not just drugs, but theft, prostitution, and other crimes.  Remember that one of the dead prostitutes was also homeless.  Regardless, even if our vigilante isn’t behind these crimes, we have a lead.”

“Lead?”  Lestrade asked.

“Methadone.”  Sherlock replied.  “The poison was likely mixed in with the medication.”

“What makes you think that?”  Gregson asked.

“Simple.  A normal methadone dose for a man about the size of either victim is 25 milligrams.  Using the half-life of the drug, you can calculate the expected concentration in the bloodstream at any given time.  We then know how long before death the medication was taken.  Knowing that bromethalin will cause death in approximately eight hours, it’s easy enough to see that they were taken at roughly the same time.  While that doesn’t indicate certainty that the methadone itself was poisoned, I think it a channel worth investigating; don’t you, Inspector?”  Sherlock finished somewhat sarcastically.

Gregson’s mouth fell open.  Lestrade cringed waiting for the rebuke, but miraculously, Gregson chuckled. 

“Alright then.  How do we find out which clinic the methadone came from?”  She asked.

“I need to find their names.  The NHS database that the Yard has access to will tell us the clinic once we have the names.”  Sherlock said, spinning and racing out of the room.

Greg followed, hot on his heels.

“Stay with him, Lestrade!  Don’t let him mess up any evidence.”  Gregson shouted after them.

Greg chased Sherlock into a cab without a second thought.  Once inside the cab, however, he wondered how this had become routine.  Police investigations were supposed to be methodical.  He wasn’t supposed to be tearing off left and right to chase a… whatever Sherlock was.  He couldn’t keep this up forever.

Greg was pulled unceremoniously from his ruminations when he heard Sherlock direct the driver to Vauxhall arches.  There was only one logical conclusion there; they were going to talk to more homeless people.

Jesus.  Sherlock was too close to this case.  A homeless – ex? – addict trying to catch the murderer of homeless ex-addicts.  Hell, it was one thing to help out on cases, but Sherlock actually fit the victim profile for this serial killer.  This was skirting the edge of reasonable, and it was well over the line of dangerous.

“Stop worrying.”  Sherlock said suddenly. 

He wasn’t even _looking_ at Greg, but out the window.  How could he tell Greg was worrying?

Sherlock turned his head and caught Greg’s eye.  “I could see your reflection.  And really, stop worrying.  I just need to talk to a few people to get the names, and we’ll be back on safe territory.”

Greg shook his head.  He was never going to stop being just a tiny bit disconcerted by that whole mind-reading thing that Sherlock did.

The car pulled up to the kerb, and Sherlock hopped out, leaving Greg to pay the cabbie as usual.  They wove through the dark alleyways in silence.  Greg had expected Sherlock to greet people as he went, but he kept his mouth closed and his eyes forward.

“Most of them don’t like me.”  Sherlock said in answer to Greg’s unspoken question.  “People forget that the homeless aren’t really different from the rest of the population.  I’m not less strange to them than to you.”

Sadness plucked at Greg, though he tried to ignore it.  How lonely for Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped near a young man who was leaning against the wall.  “I need information, Billy.”

“What sorts?”  The kid replied.

“Names.  What rumours are there about two people missing or dead?”  Sherlock asked.

“Lots of homeless people die in the winter.  It’s a hard life.  The drugs don’t make it easier.”  Sherlock seemed to think Billy was hedging, holding out on him.

“These two weren’t on drugs.  They made it onto the methadone program.”

Billy scowled.  “Yeah, those two I knew.  Been gone more than a week already though; trail’s probably cold.”

“The names, Billy.”  Sherlock commanded.

“Marcus Armstrong and Peter Jennings.”  Billy answered.

Sherlock nodded once, swirled around, and departed in the direction they had come.  Greg rolled his eyes at the dramatics before saying “thanks” to Billy and heading after Sherlock.

Ten minutes later, Greg was handing another five pound note to a taxi driver as he and Sherlock climbed out onto the street in front of New Scotland Yard.  He took Sherlock past security again, and pressed the ‘up’ button on the lift.  As the doors opened and they climbed inside, a thought occurred to Greg.

“Hey, when did you put that CCTV footage on my desk?  And why didn’t you tell me about?”

“What footage?”  Sherlock asked.

“The one with Hawkins meeting whoever hired him and Lang.” Greg said.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.  How would I have gotten CCTV footage?”

Greg scrutinized his face for signs that he was bluffing, but Sherlock’s confusion seemed genuine.

“I don’t know, but I didn’t know how you got the insurance policies either.”  Greg said.

“I borrowed your badge that morning.  All I had to do was flash it and ask.”

“You, what?  Sherlock!  You can’t just take my badge.”

“Oh, please.  You didn’t even know it was missing.”  Sherlock said.

The elevator dinged on Greg’s floor, and they headed down the hall into Greg’s office.  Greg logged into the NHS database, and pulled up Armstrong and Jennings’s profiles.

“369 Fulham Road.  That means the clinic isn’t far from here.”  Greg said.

“Perhaps we should go talk to the pharmacist there.”  Sherlock said.

Back into a cab, they went.  Greg watched the sun set as they drove the fifteen minutes to Fulham Road.  The clinic was a bright, modern building, somehow more cheerful than Greg had expected.  As they entered, Greg walked up to the receptionist, briefly explaining why they were there and asking for the pharmacist.  She pointed them down the hall.

The pharmacist was a short, middle-aged man with a white coat and nametag that read ‘Roger.’  He smiled warmly at them as they walked up.  “Picking up a prescription?”  He asked.

“Actually, we’re from the Met.  We need to take a look around.”  Lestrade said.

“Don’t you need a warrant for that?”  Roger asked in a nasally voice.

Lestrade saw Sherlock raise a disbelieving eyebrow.  Greg blinked once before responding.  “This clinic is a government building.  The Met doesn’t need a warrant to search it ever.”

“Oh.  Oh well then.”  Roger replied nervously.  “I’ll show you right back.”

Roger led Sherlock and Greg into the stock room, and Sherlock spread out like a hound on a scent trail.  He wove between the shelves and looked under the cabinets.  Within minutes, he had pulled out a tray of methadone bottles.  He opened one of the bottles and sniffed it carefully before pulling his face away sharply.

“The rat poison you’re looking for is under the counter.  We’ll need to take the actual medication to the lab for testing, but I guarantee the poison has been mixed in.  Methadone is odourless.  This has an acrid smell.  As for which pharmacist actually did this, well it’s obvious.”

Roger tried to slowly back out of the room, but Lestrade stopped him with a shout.  “Stop right there!  We’re not done yet.  Who did it, Sherlock?”

“Look at the schedule on the wall.  There are three pharmacists who rotate throughout the week, overlapping only at the busiest times.  W. Porter, R. Smith, and D. Edwards.  Edwards has been on holiday for over a week now, so we can rule him out.  Porter doesn’t have the necessary certificate to dispense methadone.  The other two have theirs displayed next to their diplomas.  That leaves Smith.”  Sherlock turned to face the frumpy man, who stood with his chin quivering.  “I think it’s safe to assume the ‘R’ stands for ‘Roger.’” 

Roger Smith threw his hands up immediately.  “I-  I didn’t want to do it.”  He wailed.

“No.”  Sherlock said quietly.  “You haven’t been sleeping.  No wedding ring, middle-aged… balance of probability suggests you don’t have a newborn.  No, you’re caring for someone else.  A sick parent perhaps?  You needed money for medication or long-term care assistance.  Doesn’t matter which, really.  Someone paid you to kill these people.  Tell us who it was.”

Smith started trembling.  “I c-c-c-can’t.  He’ll- he’ll kill me.”

“This is double homicide.  You’ll go to prison for life.”  Sherlock threatened.  “Your cooperation could change that.” 

Rather than answering Sherlock’s demand, Smith simply collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor.  Sherlock looked utterly shocked by the reaction.

“What is he doing?”  He asked Greg.  “The logical response would have been to simply tell us who hired him.”

“People aren’t always logical, Sherlock.”  Greg explained as he pulled Smith to his feet and handcuffed him.  Greg confiscated Smith’s mobile and tossed it to Sherlock.  “Take a look and see if there’s anything interesting on that.”

Sherlock’s fingers raced over the screen.  “A number.  He’s been getting instructions via text message from his benefactor.  We don’t need the name.  If we run a trace on the number back at the Yard, we’ll have the guy.”

Lestrade smiled.  “Let’s go then.”


	10. Murder for Hire

Once again, Greg found himself leaning over his desk, digging through a computerized database.  Sherlock, Donovan, Anderson, and Gregson peered over his shoulder as he typed the phone number into the search bar.  As soon as Greg hit ‘enter,’ the result appeared on the screen.  At exactly same moment, Gregson inhaled sharply, Sally said “what,” and Sherlock said “oh.”  Greg felt his mouth fall open in surprise.  This couldn’t be correct.  It just couldn’t be.  According to the database, the mobile, which had been used to send murder instructions to Smith, belonged to New Scotland Yard.  It was one of the standard phones issued to officers to call for backup.  Its serial number was listed in the database.  Greg would have to check the logs to see who it had been issued to.

“It seems one of your officers isn’t so upstanding.”  Sherlock murmured.

“It’s impossible.”  Anderson scoffed.

 “This must be a mistake.”  Donovan said.  “Maybe an officer lost the phone and was afraid to report it missing.  Either way, we need to report this to the Superintendent.”

Greg’s stomach dropped.  The last thing he needed was to explain Sherlock’s presence to someone so high up the chain.  “Is it really necessary to call in the Superintendent on New Year’s Eve?  We have no proof of wrongdoing yet.”  Greg hedged. 

“If a Yard officer might be guilty of hiring someone to murder, then yes, it’s necessary.”  Donovan crossed her arms stubbornly.

Greg opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by the sound of a door opening.

“What’s going on out here?  I’m trying to finish some paperwork, and I could do without the racket.”  Unnoticed by anyone, DI Hopkins had apparently been sitting in his office and was now peering out at the group with a scowl.  “Who’s this?”  He said, pointing at Sherlock.

“He’s a consultant, sir.”  Greg answered. 

“I don’t remember authorizing a consultant.”  Hopkins continued to glare.

Greg swallowed nervously.  He cast his mind around for an appropriate explanation, but found nothing.  He was steeling himself to confess all the help he had received free of charge from Sherlock when Gregson chimed in like a guardian angel.

“I authorized the consultant, Hopkins.  He’s an expert on both prescription and recreational drugs.  This case still belongs to drugs until I hear otherwise from the higher-ups.  Especially considering that the poison was dispensed at a pharmacy.  When and if it gets turned over to you, you can decide if you keep the consultant.”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief, but Hopkins was working himself into a fit.  “Poison?  Pharmacy?  What case is this?  What are you talking about?”

 “Drugs found two homeless men poisoned.”  Greg rushed to explain.  “We’re trying to find the person responsible.  We found the actual killer, but we think he was hired.  We have a phone number, but… well, it belongs to the Yard.  We’re trying to decide the best course of action from here.”

“Why don’t we just call the number?”  Sherlock suggested, almost casually, pulling out his phone.  “If a Yard officer answers, then we can bring them in for questioning.  If someone else answers, we can start trying to pinpoint the phone’s location.”

“Now hold on just a second!”  Hopkins said.  “We need to determine the proper protocol for this.”

But despite Hopkins’ protest, Sherlock was already dialing.  He pressed ‘send,’ with an air of finality, and whisked the phone up to his ear.  Two very long seconds of silence followed as everyone in the room stared at Sherlock.

And then, a phone started ringing.  Five heads whipped in the direction of the sound, and Greg, Donovan, Anderson, Gregson, and Sherlock all found themselves looking at DI Hopkins.

The entire group stood frozen, disbelieving.  Hopkins backed slowly into his office, and Greg searched his mind frantically for another conclusion – other than the obvious – to draw from the evidence laid before them.  Not finding one, he turned desperately to Sherlock.  If any mind could make sense of this turn of events, it was his.

Sherlock glanced away from Hopkins for the barest instant, catching Greg’s eye and reading the desperation on his face.  Confidence smoothed his features in the moment before he laid out the truth like a jury reading a guilty verdict.

“A policeman.  In theory dedicated to protecting the public, but there are other reasons people join the force too.  In your case, a conservative young man with idealistic notions of eradicating crime.  But not just any crime, no.  You wanted to raise society out of the gutter.  Jaded by the inability of the police force to enforce sweeping societal reforms, you turned to your own brand of justice.”

“You’ll never prove that.”  Hopkins spat, his face red with rage.

“The motive?  No.  Of course we’ll never prove that.  Your ideologies are in your head alone.  But you made mistakes.  Several.  We can connect you to all three recent serial killer cases and one five years ago.”

“Oh really?”  Hopkins retorted sarcastically.

“Oh yes.”  Sherlock answered darkly.  “Your first mistake was a simple one, really.  You told Lestrade that Amelia Wise was a prostitute.  You were correct, of course, but you also had no way of knowing that at the time.  You knew because you paid for her death.  The eyewitness testimony of one Mr. Jacob Owing further connects you to Mr. Lang – and his killings both five years ago and recently.  You already know that Roger Smith – who poisoned the homeless men for you – provided us with your telephone number, and really it wasn’t very clever to use a Scotland Yard phone that was so easily traceable to you.  Pure laziness.  That’s why you put your rookie Sergeant on these cases.  You never expected him to actually solve them.  Never underestimate your nemeses, Detective.”

Sherlock paused, and Donovan piped in.  “What about the strangled businessmen?”

“Ah, well I’ll admit we had a little help on that one.”  Sherlock turned to look at Greg.

Greg had to think back for a second.  Then it dawned on him, and the last puzzle piece fell neatly into place.  “Someone sent in CCTV footage of you meeting Hawkins.  Your red hair is a dead giveaway.” 

“That’s an awful lot of blood on your hands, Detective.”  Sherlock accused.

Greg stood, unsure what to do.  Hopkins had to be arrested, but how was he supposed to arrest his boss without it looking suspicious?  Thankfully, Gregson stepped forward.

“Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to murder.”

Before she could say anything else, Hopkins drew his pistol.  Greg reacted immediately, diving sideways to push Gregson to the floor and out of harm’s way.  Sherlock also dove, but at Hopkins knees, throwing the red-haired man off balance.  The sound of a shot vibrated through the air, and Donovan screamed.

Hopkins wrenched his leg out of Sherlock’s grip and raced for the exit.  Greg and Sherlock both scrambled to their feet and rushed after him, but they collided near the office door.  Greg tripped and fell sideways into a desk, while Sherlock landed sprawled on the floor again.

Again, they both made to follow Hopkins, Greg beating Sherlock out the door this time.  They flew down the stairs and out of the building.  Greg turned on the sidewalk, looking in every direction for the DI, but there was no sign of him.  He turned to Sherlock, who shouted wordlessly.

“We’ve lost him.  He’ll have got in a cab.”  Sherlock said.

“We can still track him down.  We’ve got cameras around here.”  Greg said, starting back for the door.  The sound of sirens made him look back to find Sherlock also missing.

“Sherlock?  Sherlock?!”  Greg shouted.

At that moment though, several police cars and an ambulance pulled up.  The Superintendent climbed out of one of them.

“Sergeant!  Care to explain why I’m getting calls about shots being fired on New Scotland Yard premises?”  He demanded.

“Detective Hopkins, sir.  He’s been behind all the serial killers this year.”  Greg answered obediently.  “He opened fire on us, when we found him out.  I chased him down here, but he got away.”

“Anyone injured?”  The Superintendent asked.

“I don’t know.  We need to get upstairs.”  Greg said.

The two of them were followed upstairs by a small horde or police officers.  Back in the office, medics were attending to Donovan.  Greg suddenly remembered her scream, and hurried over to see what was wrong.

“I fell and hit my head.  I wasn’t shot, so there’s no need to fuss, Lestrade.”  She said.

Greg collapsed into his desk chair.  This was going to be a nightmare’s worth of paperwork, and he still had to actually catch Hopkins.

The medics seemed to decide that Donovan didn’t need to go to the hospital, and the scene started to disperse.  The Superintendent declared Gregson temporarily in charge of Hopkins’ team until a replacement could be found and then told them to get started on the paperwork before clearing out himself.  Gregson turned a concerned eye on Greg, but it was Donovan and Anderson who spoke up.

“What’s going on with you, Lestrade?”  Donovan asked.  “You know better than to get involved with someone like Sherlock.”

“Where did the freak even go?”  Anderson said.

“He slipped off before the scene got crowded.  I can’t make him stay.”  Lestrade said.

“Lestrade, you know as well as us that he left because he knew the Superintendent couldn’t be allowed to see him.  He’s a junkie, regardless of how smart he is, and he’s not trained to be working on crime scenes.  If he hadn’t gotten in your way, you would have caught Hopkins and I wouldn’t be injured.”  Donovan argued.

“She’s right.”  Anderson added.  “Nothing good can come of him working with us.  You need to kick this little habit of yours.”

Lestrade buried his face in his hands for a moment, and then looked up into the sympathetic face of DI Gregson.

“They’re not wrong, Greg.  I’m not saying he’s a bad person, but by using him you’re doing a good thing in an illegal way, and that gets messy when you have to file the paperwork.”

She looked genuinely sad, and a bit conflicted as she said it, but Greg knew she always had his best interests at heart.  Besides he had been feeling guilty about Sherlock’s involvement already.

He nodded once.  “Go home.  All of you.  I’ll start the paperwork.”

And the three of them left him to his work, alone in the office on New Year’s Eve.

 

* * *

 

Thirteen days later, Greg sat at his desk trying to figure out where next to look for Hopkins, when someone walked up, shading his desk from the overhead light.  He looked up to see Sherlock once again standing in his office.

“I have a lead on Hopkins.  I need you to-“

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock.”  Greg said.  “You can’t help on this case.  Actually, you can’t help on any case, ever again.”

Sherlock’s face fell instantly.  “Why not?”

“Because you can’t follow protocol.  Because _I_ can’t follow protocol when I’m with you.  Because you’re a drug addict, not actually a consultant or an expert in, well, anything.  You just can’t anymore.  Okay?”

Sherlock stood silent for a moment, and guilt gnawed at Greg’s insides.  He prayed silently to whatever God might be listening that Sherlock would understand.  Or even that he would ignore Greg and insist on offering his help, somehow convince Greg it was okay.  Greg actually wanted him to argue, but Sherlock only looked down at him with an anguished expression, turned around mutely, and swept away.

Greg sat at his desk for a few more hours trying in vain to accomplish something, but the regret anchored in his gut was a constant distraction.  Giving up, he left for home.  He grabbed his coat off a hook by the office door on the way out and was dumbfounded to see the Bellstaff hanging next to it, a silent rebuke for Greg’s lack of defence of Sherlock’s friendship.

He took it off its hook as well, resolving to apologize if he ever saw Sherlock again.  He could keep it at home.  Sherlock knew where he lived after all.  He might show up, even if Greg himself had never wanted to go home less.

The drive home passed too fast, the streetlights flashing by monotonously.  Greg climbed the stairs, physically dreading the emptiness of the flat for the first time since Christmas Eve.  The dark hall was illuminated by a thin stripe of light emanating from his front door.

Greg’s guard immediately went up.  The door was open again. 

He crept forward, his imagination conjuring up images of not just burglars and murderers, but of Sherlock and his mysterious acquaintance with the umbrella.  He pushed the door open and slowly stepped into the living room.

It was empty.

A thorough inspection showed the entire flat to be empty of other people and as he had left it.  It was only when he had completed his search for strangers, locked the front door, and dropped into his armchair to contemplate the strangeness of the day, that he realized there was something already sitting on the chair.

From underneath him, he pulled a flash drive.

Recalling the CCTV recording of Hawkins and Hopkins that had mysteriously found its way onto his desk, his curiosity overcame his desire to protect his laptop from malware, and Greg stood to plug in the drive. 

He pulled up the folder to open the file, when his phone rang, making him jump.  Greg answered the phone at the same moment that he opened the file.

“Good evening, Sergeant.  I see you’ve found my little gift.”  It seemed the man in the pinstriped suit had broken in again.

Greg looked down at the tape and watched, astonished, as a recording of him in his office earlier that day played.  It showed him shaking his head at Sherlock, and Sherlock departing without another word.

The video clicked off, and Greg answered.  “How did you get a camera in my office?  And how did you know I’m watching the recording now?”

“Consider this a warning, Sergeant.  You’re actions are being watched, and you made a mistake today.”

The phone line went dead.  Greg stood in shock.  Should he report this?  Filming him at home and work was stalking.  Combine that with that very thinly veiled threat, and Greg felt nervous.  He turned and began digging through every nook for a hidden camera in the flat.  He found it tucked between two books on his living room bookcase.  How long had that been there? 

Suddenly, Greg understood where the film of Hopkins had come from.  Not Sherlock at all, but the umbrella man.  Sherlock had called this man the most powerful person Greg had ever met.  There seemed to be some merit in that notion.  He had infiltrated Scotland Yard just to put a camera somewhere in Greg’s office.  Even if Greg reported it, could the police actually stop him?

And why?  Why did this man care so much about Sherlock?  Enough to help out during a difficult case.  Enough to threaten Greg.  Who, exactly, was Greg dealing with?


	11. The Low Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know this chapter is late coming, but the subject matter is pretty dark, so I procrastinated. This is a friendly and brief trigger warning for those who don't want to read about self-harm or suicide. This chapter and the next are going to deal with it, and then we will get back into cases and friendship and frenemies turned lovers. Happy readings!

Greg jolted awake at the shrill ringing of his mobile.  He fumbled in the dark for the lamp on the bedside table, switching it on before answering the call.

“Lestrade.”  He said sleepily.

“Greg, it’s Sally.  I know it’s late; I’m sorry.  We got a tip on the Hopkins Case, and we really need you to come in.”

Greg swallowed a groan and rubbed his free hand over his face.  The last three months had been like this.  With no proper DI available to replace Hopkins yet, the brunt of the management work fell to Greg, and with the Hopkins case still open, Greg was fighting a public relations nightmare.  The scandal caused by one of the Yard’s own officers being accused of multiple homicides and then getting away - from NSY premises, no less - was unprecedented.  If they could just catch Hopkins, the media would soon forget about the mess, but so far he had alluded capture.  All the media attention meant they were getting plenty of anonymous tips, but not usually terribly useful ones, and this was the third time this week Greg had been called into work in the middle of the night.

And that was on top of all the routine cases.  Greg had never needed Sherlock’s help more, and he was beginning to seriously question his sanity at turning it away.  Greg could barely stand to think about the man.  Sadness and worry threatened to overwhelm him every time he did.

“Alright.  Just give me half an hour.  I’ll be there by-“  Greg glanced down at the clock on his bedside table.  “Jesus.  Okay.  I’ll be there by 0430.”

Greg hung up on Donovan and rolled out of bed.  He needed the benefit of a quick shower and a hot cup of coffee before facing today.

After showering and shaving, Greg leaned on the bathroom counter facing the bathroom mirror.  The circles under his eyes only served to make him feel more tired.  He allowed himself ten seconds to close his eyes and hang his head before heading down to his car and starting the engine.  He pulled into the carpark under New Scotland Yard before the sun had even begun to rise, thinking that it was a minor miracle he hadn’t fallen asleep at the wheel.

At 0428 Greg walked into the office.  “What are we looking at this time?”

Donovan looked up from where she was hunched over reading a report.  “Anonymous caller claims he spotted Hopkins in Brixton.  Had a good description of him, and we do know that Hopkins has a flat there.”

“Any other sightings?”  Greg asked.

“No, but we’ve got all the officers in the area looking.”  Donovan answered.

“Get me access to the CCTV around his flat and make sure someone is watching the entrances at all times.”

Greg’s day ended over fifteen hours later after sitting a twelve hour stakeout shift and finishing half a mountain of paperwork.  Hopkins was still missing, all Greg’s efforts for nothing.  Greg laid his head down on his desk and tried not to cry. 

This was the low point, he thought.  It had to be; he simply couldn’t take any more.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow, for sure, there would be a break in the case, and he could finally get some sleep.  Then he could spend some time looking for Sherlock and trying to figure out how to apologize.  He took slow, deep breaths without lifting his head, to try to quell the frustration and anxiety, which were so badly exacerbated by lack of sleep. 

In two three, out two three.  In two three, out two three.

His heart rate slowed with his breathing, and exhaustion overcame him.  His back and neck would ensure that there would be hell to pay later for sleeping like this, but at the moment, Greg couldn’t be bothered to care.

His mobile – ever his enemy these days – once again woke him far too soon.  All the anxiety of the day before raced back instantly, and Greg jumped.  He scrambled to find his phone and managed to tip his chair over in the process.  With a thud, Greg landed on his backside on the office floor and finally dug out his phone.  He glanced at his watch once again – Jesus, nearly 2am – before answering.

“Hello?”

“Sorry to bother you, Sergeant.”  The dispatcher said.  “We’ve got a caller on the phone, frantic.  Says there’s a dead body in the street, but Brady’s out that way and hasn’t found anything.  Hard to see much of anything with it pissing down outside.  Can you go help him check it out?”

“Yeah, hang on.  What’s the location?”  Sitting up on his knees, Greg tore through his desk for a scrap of paper and a pen, jotted down the address, and hung up the phone.  He looked down at the paper in his hand and blinked.  Why was it always bloody Vauxhall?

The police cruiser got him to the specified address in less than five minutes, even with the rain pouring down.

Greg stepped out of the car, pulling the collar of his coat up against the rain, but he was drenched in seconds regardless.  He pulled a torch from his coat pocket and began to sweep slowly up and down the street.  Within minutes, shivers wracked his body, and his teeth were chattering uncontrollably.  He made it nearly a block down the street before an odd bolt of lightning illuminated the area for a split second.  In that bare instant, Greg saw the body.  It was tucked down in a drainage ditch, half covered in water, and Greg rushed in to check, followed by the crackling roll of thunder. 

Ten steps out, terror – hot and blinding – seized Greg.  His torch light revealed a pale face crowned with dark curls, blurred by cascading water droplets, but utterly recognizable.  Greg ran.

He fell to his knees and reached out desperately.  “No.  Sherlock…”  Greg’s fingers wrapped around Sherlock’s icy hand, seeking any sign of lingering life.  “No, no, no.  Come on, please.”  Despite the chilled skin, Greg pressed two fingers to Sherlock’s pulse point anyway. 

A thready and weak pulse was barely discernible, but it felt like pure, unadulterated hope to Greg.  He reached for his radio and called for an ambulance, then pulled off his coat to cover Sherlock.  With one hand clinging on to Sherlock’s wrist, Greg started trying to rouse him from unconsciousness.  He tapped gently on Sherlock’s face, begging him to wake up.

The seconds ticked by slowly, and Sherlock didn’t wake.  Greg cursed the slow ambulance driver aloud, and suddenly Sherlock’s pulse gave out.  Another wave of icy panic rushed over Greg before he ripped his coat off the man in front of him and started CPR.  Thirty compressions, two breaths.  Thirty compressions, two breaths.  On the third set, Greg’s count only reached 14 before he was pushed aside by the paramedics, who took over and rushed Sherlock into the ambulance.

Vaguely, Greg registered the sound of more sirens approaching after the ambulance started pulling away, but it didn’t seem to matter at the moment.  The falling adrenaline left him weak and tired, with a hollow feeling in his gut.  Unable to even stand, Greg crawled to the kerb and sat with his head in his hands.  When the first tears fell, he thought perhaps the rain would cover them, but there was no covering the sobs that began escaping him after a few seconds.  So Greg let himself go.  He wept and shook, and let other people start cleaning up the scene.

It didn’t immediately register to Greg when someone sat down next to him.  The warm, gentle voice of Gregson nearly startled him.  “This isn’t your fault, you know.”

Greg forced himself to calm his hiccoughing enough to respond.  “He… he left.  After I told him he couldn’t work.  And I… I wanted to find him, but I just… I couldn’t.  I can’t.  I can’t do it all anymore.”  Another sob escaped.

“Greg, listen to me.  You can’t always be everything to everyone.  You’re the type of person to force it; make things work by sheer force of will even when they seem impossible.  You’re so good at it that people forget you sometimes need backup – myself included.”

“I failed.”  Greg said.  “Him, the Yard, my family.  I’ve ruined everything.”

“It isn’t over yet.”  Gregson reminded him.  “That kid is going to pull through, I’m going to get you the backup you need, and you are going to use the time I free up for you to pull one of your patented Lestrade miracles, understand?”

It wasn’t really a question, so much as an order from a superior officer.  Greg nodded, the motion steeling him to ask the next question.  “What do I do now?”

“Sherlock’s next of kin is on the way here – a family member as I understand it.  He wants to speak to you.”  Gregson answered.

Greg puzzled over that statement.  “Sherlock doesn’t have any family.”

Gregson tilted her head.  “Did he actually tell you that?” 

Well, no, he hadn’t, Greg thought.  But still, Greg had been quite certain of that fact.  After all, the kid was homeless.  Anger suddenly flared in the pit of Greg’s stomach.  “If he has family, where were they this whole time?  Why let it come to this if they cared at all?  And if they don’t care, why show up now?”

“I don’t know, Greg.  Do at least _try_ not to yell at them though.  I’d wager you’re not the only one stressed about this situation.” 

Gregson stood and then pulled Lestrade to his feet just as the headlights of a shiny, black car with dark-tinted windows pulled up.


	12. A Patented Lestrade Miracle

The black sedan slowed to a halt in front Greg and Gregson.  The car’s darkened windows screamed institutionalized power.  Whoever had the money to send such a ride was without a doubt important, and Greg didn’t care much at the moment if that power was backed by criminals or politicians.  He instinctually took a step back from the kerb.

Gregson patted him gently on the shoulder, and he braced himself for whatever unknown battle was coming.  The car was his ride, but what and who was waiting for him at the destination was still a mystery.  Greg felt that it didn’t matter terribly whether it was a crying mother or a screaming father.  Sherlock’s family had obviously abandoned him; they had earned Greg’s ire.

Greg took a deep breath and reached for the car door handle.  He ducked into the back seat to find the other seat already occupied by none other than the man in the pinstriped suit.

“You?”  Greg asked incredulously.

“I see your manners are unchanged from when last we spoke, Sergeant.”

“Says the mysterious stranger who’s broken into my home twice.  At least twice and I don’t even know your name!”  Greg said.

The man studied Greg with a supercilious expression for a moment before replying.  “It does seem that I have failed to introduce myself properly.”  He said smoothly, ignoring Greg’s other accusation entirely.  “I do like to investigate people thoroughly before letting them know much about me.  I’m quite certain you understand being a member of the law enforcement yourself.” 

Greg was quite certain that he did not understand whatever he was talking about, but he let it slide in favor of continuing to glare in the hopes of getting some real answers.

And after a few silently tense seconds, the man did continue.  “You may call me Mycroft.”

He proffered his hand for Greg to shake, but Greg did not take it.  He was too busy scoffing.  “Mycroft?  Is that even your real name?  Who the hell would name their kid My...”  A sudden realization dawned on him.  “No.  No, wait.  The same people who named a kid ‘Sherlock.’”  Greg’s chin fell to his chest with the weight of the conclusion.  “Jesus Christ, you’re his brother.”

Surprise crossed Mycroft’s face for a moment so fleeting Greg wasn’t sure it had ever really been there.  Greg felt like an utter idiot.  He should have seen this coming.  Mycroft had clearly expected him to already know.  He wasn’t interested in Sherlock for some nefarious purpose; he was just a nosy, controlling older sibling.

“What do you want?”  Greg said through gritted teeth.

“To help.”  Mycroft answered.  He opened his mouth to continue, but Greg cut him off.

“To help?  To help?!  How exactly are you helping?  By abandoning your brother to drug addiction and homelessness?  By spying on him and me?  By trying to coerce him into a job he doesn’t want?  What exactly are you doing to help?”

Mycroft’s face pinched into a scowl.  “Everything I can.”  He paused, looking both sad and deeply offended.  “My brother is beyond control or perhaps you hadn’t noticed, Sergeant.  He won’t accept my help.  He won’t come live with me.  I can’t give him money without him spending it on cocaine.  I certainly can’t get him into rehab.  All I can do is try to control the damage, and clearly I am failing at even that.  What would you have me do?”

“You can’t control him because he doesn’t need a keeper.  He just needs someone to try to understand him.  You’re his family!”  Greg said.

“And how well does your family understand you, Sergeant?  How well do you get along with them?”  Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Greg thought about his ex-wife and grumbled.  “That’s a bad example.”

“It’s a statistically average example.  Almost no one gets along with their family.  People love their family, certainly, but they don’t get along.  Family is just a coincidence of genetics and the questionable decisions that precede marriage, not a guarantee of compatibility.”

Greg heaved a sigh.  This argument wasn’t worth having.  “What do you want?”  He asked again.

“I want you to help me help Sherlock.”  Mycroft said.  “He’s… difficult to keep track of, and I cannot devote all my time to the task.  I need someone to provide information on him, and you are ideally placed.  As I offered previously, I would be willing to facilitate any legal paperwork necessary to allow him to recommence working with you.  This would give you the most access to him, and I believe it to be a mutually beneficial situation.  He is… better when he’s on a case with you.”

Greg looked up into Mycroft’s eyes.  The hesitancy of that last statement was unnerving.  Mycroft sounded almost vulnerable, as if he hated to admit that someone else was capable of helping Sherlock when he himself was not.

Greg considered the offer again.  It would be mutually beneficial to have Sherlock working with him again, but there also had to be reasons Mycroft had never gone through with such a plan in the past.  Perhaps he hadn’t yet had the power or maybe there hadn’t been a New Scotland Yard officer willing to oversee it. 

Or maybe Sherlock wouldn’t accept it if it came from Mycroft.

That was the real snag.  Mycroft had the power now, and Greg was willing to be the Yard’s representative, but Sherlock would never agree to the plan.  One look at Greg and he’d know that Greg was passing information to his rival older sibling.  There was no way to make it work.

“I can’t.”  Greg said.  He wanted to explain, but Mycroft interrupted him.

“I don’t think you understand.  This gives everyone what they want.  I will be able to keep an eye on Sherlock, your cases will get solved, and Sherlock will have work to occupy his mind.  What’s to lose?”  Mycroft ran his fingers roughly through his hair, looking agitated. 

“I can’t.”  Greg repeated and then scurried to continue before being cut off again.  “Sherlock will never work for me if he thinks I’m passing information to you, and you know it.  And even if he were willing to do it, what kind of friend would I be to him if I agreed to it?”

Mycroft tilted his head.  “Sergeant Lestrade, I admire your loyalty.”  He took a deep breath and let it out before continuing.  “However, Sherlock does not have a place in this world.  He doesn’t ‘fit in’ anywhere.  I can’t change him; no one can.  The only hope I have is to change the world to make a place for him.  It’s the only reason I ever went into government work in the first place.  Now you tell me that my plan cannot possibly work.  And you are right, by the way.  It’s a problem I foresaw, but willfully ignored since I had no solution for it.  I had hoped that I would eventually find a way, but given that it will not work, to what hope should I cling?  Or should I despair that my little brother is lost?”

Greg stared back at Mycroft, suddenly understanding.  Sherlock’s family did care.  Mycroft cared immensely; enough to make major life decisions in the hope of helping his brother.  A soft, tender feeling gripped Greg.

But Mycroft couldn’t help Sherlock.  Attempting to help him had only driven him farther away.  That didn’t mean there was no solution, however; only that Mycroft couldn’t grasp it.

“You have to trust me.”  Greg said.  “I know trust isn’t really your thing, but Sherlock won’t go along with anything that he suspects you are behind.  I can help him, but you have to trust me.”

For one, heart-stopping minute Mycroft studied Greg, appraising him, and then the car stopped.  Mycroft nodded.  “Do what you have to do.”

Greg pushed open the door, expecting to be in the middle of nowhere and found himself facing St. Bart’s.

Greg pushed through the hospital doors and strode up to the receptionist’s desk.  He placed shaking hands down in front of him and asked after Sherlock.

The receptionist typed the name into the computer before looking up at Greg.  “He’s still being stabilized.  It may be a while before he’s awake enough for visitors.  We can give you a call if you’d like to go home.”  She said.

“I’ll wait.”  Greg replied.

And Greg waited.  He plopped down into a chair and tried to occupy himself with a magazine, but couldn’t seem to focus.  His mind drifted repeatedly to the image of Sherlock lying half-drowned in a puddle.  Overdose.  Not a pretty thing.

He thought for a while that he might actually be tired enough to overcome the mental image and sleep, but just as he started to doze, a truly horrid thought occurred to him.

What if it wasn’t really an overdose?  What if Sherlock had done it on purpose?  Had he despaired enough that he might want to end it all?  Oh, God.  Greg’s heart raced into double time.  Could he really pull Sherlock back from that point?

He stood abruptly and began to pace across the room.  He made three circles around before he tried to sit again.  He needed something to do with his hands.  He picked up the magazines and rearranged them twice before he realized what he was doing.

There was nothing to do here.  Perhaps he should go home and let them call him, but what would he do there either?  Greg suddenly wished Mycroft had come in with him.  At least then he’d have someone to talk to.  But then, having Mycroft here would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?  So Greg continued to squirm.

Three hours later, a nurse tapped a still-fidgety Greg on the shoulder.  “He’s awake, if you want to see him.  Room 317.”

Greg stood immediately and then wished he hadn’t.  He swayed momentarily on his feet before plowing forward to face the next task.

He took the elevator up to the third floor and turned left down the hallway.  He wandered in a daze to room 317 and pushed the door open to find Sherlock lying still on his back in the harsh hospital lights.  Sherlock’s face was still pale and his skin seemed just a bit too tight.  He looked only moments from death even then.  He turned his head toward the sound of the opening door, but turned back to the ceiling as soon as he saw Greg.

All the terror of the night caught up to Greg in that moment.  Frustration and anger pumped suddenly through him.  The urge to storm into the room was nearly overwhelming, but Greg took a deep breath and approached the bed slowly.

“Why the hell are you here?”  Sherlock said without looking at Greg.

“Cocaine.  To help you think.  That’s what you told me last summer.  Never for the high, and never without carefully regulating what you’re taking.  So what the hell happened last night, Sherlock?”

“You know what happened.”  Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling.

Greg stared at him.  “No, I-“

“Eliminate the impossible, and whatever’s left is the truth.  However unappealing that truth may be.”  Sherlock finally turned and made eye contact.  “You know what happened, Lestrade.”

So it was true then.  Sherlock had deliberately overdosed.  He’d wanted to die last night.  The room suddenly seemed devoid of air.

“Why?”  Greg managed to choke out.

“Because there’s nothing left for me.  Nothing but the insatiable itch of boredom and stagnation.  Nothing to occupy my mind.  Nowhere to go.  Nothing.  What would you have done?”

“Not that.”  Greg closed his eyes for a moment before continuing.  “You could have come to me.  You could have asked me for help.”

“And what would you have done?”  Sherlock asked.

“I- I wanted to find you.  I wanted to help.  I just couldn’t-  I didn’t have-“

“Exactly.  You couldn’t have helped.  You didn’t have time.”  Sherlock turned back to the ceiling.

“I-  I’m sorry.”  Greg took half a step closer to the bed.  “Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock looked back at Greg and studied him for several seconds.  “You honestly want to help me.  Fascinating.”

“Listen, Sherlock.  I can get you back in on cases with the Yard.  God knows I need the help, but you can’t keep using.  I can’t have someone high on a crime scene.”

“What exactly are you proposing?”  Sherlock asked.

“Get clean.  Stay clean for two months and then you can work with me again.  That will give me enough time to get the paperwork figured out.  Everything will be legal this time.  No more sneaking; no more hiding.  I’ll get the Yard to drop any drug charges on you, and I’ll even get you a consulting fee if I can.”

“Do I have any other options?”

“Criminal drug charges and involuntary rehab.”  Greg pronounced seriously.

“Then it seems I should take you up on your proposal.”  Sherlock responded.

“That’s settled then.  Give me a few hours sleep, and I’ll get started working on it.”

“That doesn’t solve my other problem though.”  Sherlock said.

Greg stared blankly at him before he continued.  “Perhaps it comes as a surprise to you that I’m rather tired of sleeping on the streets.”

Greg grimaced.  He’d forgotten that particular problem.  “You’ll be here for tonight at least.  If I haven’t found anything else by the time you get out, you can stay with me.”

Sherlock studied Greg for another minute, nodded once, and then returned to his contemplation of the ceiling.  Greg left him to his thoughts.  He had a lot of work to do tomorrow, and he needed sleep now if he was going to pull off this miracle.


	13. Experiments and Legalities

Greg stood in the doorway contemplating his spare bedroom.  A single bed was squeezed into the corner of the tiny room, almost lost among the stacks of books and boxes that had never quite gotten unpacked after the divorce.

Greg had spent the last two days looking for a place for Sherlock to live.  The only problem was that Sherlock didn’t exactly have an income, and Greg had forbidden him from working for the Yard until he was clean for two months.  No landlord was going to rent to someone without any sort of job or savings.

With no other options in sight, Greg was faced with making his second bedroom livable.  Once he figured out the payment situation with the Yard, he could find Sherlock a more permanent home. 

He was down to two boxes when someone knocked on the door.  Greg pulled himself up and to the front door.  Greg pulled open the door to see Sherlock looking almost sheepish in the hallway.  He held his backpack in one hand, all his worldly possessions on his person.  A memory of the heartbreak of the last few months threatened to drown Greg momentarily, and he reached out to yank Sherlock into a rib-crushing hug.

Sherlock startled and dropped his backpack, but leaned in after a moment and awkwardly patted Greg on the back.  Greg had to force himself to let go, ignoring the sudden heart-stopping fear of losing Sherlock.  Sherlock snagged his backpack from the floor, and Greg shut the front door behind them.

They padded silently into the kitchen, Sherlock dropping his bag on the sofa on the way in.  Greg clicked the kettle on and set about making tea, but Sherlock stood gawkily in the center of the room, looking lost.

“What do I do?”  Sherlock asked.

“Drink tea.  Eat dinner.  Take a shower.”  Greg said.  “Seriously just relax and make yourself at home.”

“No.  I mean for the next two months.  What do I do?”

“Oh, well.  You could get a job?  At Tesco’s or something.”  Greg suggested.

Sherlock grimaced.  “Plebeian.” 

“Okay.  Well, you want to be a detective.  Research the laws and regulations governing independent businesses.  Make a website.  Tell people about what you do.  Get yourself some clients.”

“Clients?”  Sherlock looked suddenly curious.

“Yeah.  I mean, you’re great for the Yard, but other people might actually pay you to solve their mysteries right now.”

“Interesting.”  Sherlock paused for a brief moment.  “Attracting clients may take some time.  I’ll have to build a reputation.  What should I do in the meantime?”

Greg thought for a second, coming up with nothing.  “I don’t know.  Let me think about it.  Just try to rest tonight, okay?”

They ate in companionable silence and retired to their respective rooms at a reasonable time.  Greg had to work the next day, and he was still dangerously deficient in sleep.  He woke up at six o’clock on the dot when his alarm went off and dragged himself out of bed.  He opened the bedroom door to discover a scene of chaos.

Every single one of his dishes was scattered throughout the kitchen.  Pieces of paper with scribbles on them littered the countertops.  And Sherlock, in an old set of Greg’s pajamas, whirled about the room in a frenzy.

“Sherlock?  What the-?”  Greg said.

“Bored.  Bored.  Bored!”  Sherlock yelled. 

“What is all this?”  Greg asked.

Sherlock gestured at the mess surrounding him.  “I was testing the effects of different liquids on cigarette residue.”

“Sherlock, you can’t smoke in here.  You shouldn’t be smoking at all; it’s not good for you.”

“The potential negative health consequences haven’t stopped you from smoking.”  Sherlock said with narrowed eyes.

Greg sighed.  “That’s beside the point.  I have a lease.  You can’t smoke in here.  I have to go to work.  Please clean this up.”

Greg turned and disappeared into the bathroom to get ready.  A quick shower and shave later, Greg reemerged, dressed for work.  Sherlock hadn’t cleaned up.  He was still pacing in the kitchen, trying to pull his hair out.

Greg stared at him for a moment.  “Listen, Sherlock.  Try to be productive today.  You’ll feel better.  I’ll be home tonight.”

Sherlock froze and turned to Greg.  He nodded once and then went back to pacing.  Greg hesitated.  Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t ready to be left alone yet.  Greg was needed at work though, and Sherlock needed to know that Greg trusted him.

“Okay, see you later.”  Greg said and headed out to his car.

He arrived at the office woefully distracted.  He had barely managed to boot up his computer when Donovan poked her head in the door.

“Two suspicious bodies last night, sir.”  She said.

Greg snapped into focus immediately.  “Related?”

Donovan hesitated.  “I know what you’re thinking.  If Hopkins is killing again, we might be able to trace him, but I don’t think they are related.  It doesn’t seem like his style.”

Greg suppressed a grimace.  If the deaths weren’t related to the Hopkins case, then they were even more to add to his already very full plate.  “What do we know about them?”

“I’d call the first a domestic violence incident that got out of control.  We’ve got the husband in custody.”  She said.

“And the other body?”  Greg asked.

“Cut and dry suicide.”  Donovan stated confidently.

“Then why’d you call it suspicious?”  Greg asked.

Donovan sneered.  “The body was found in a weird place.  He had no reason to be there.  No history of depression, but it’s clear that he took the poison himself.”

“You have the coroner’s reports?” 

“Not yet, sir.  The bodies are at Saint Bart’s now.”

“Let’s go then.”  Greg said.

They headed out to the morgue together.  After a mostly silent car ride, they arrived at the front of the hospital.  Greg pushed the door open, only to nearly run headlong into a portly, middle-aged man walking beside Molly. 

Greg grunted out a “pardon me,” but the other gentleman brushed him off genially.

Molly looked distinctly discombobulated and fumbled for introductions.  “Oh!  Sorry.  We weren’t expecting you, Sergeant… Oh, um.  This is Mike.  Mike Stamford.  He’s one of the doctors here at Bart’s.  Mike, this is Sergeant Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard and Constable Sally Donovan.”

“Ah yes, Molly speaks quite well about working with the Yard.  Sometimes makes me wish I had chosen the deceased clients myself.”  Mike chuckled happily.

Greg silently thought that Mike was precisely the wrong type of personality to work with the dead, but he shook his hand all the same.

“Were you here for something specific, Sergeant?”  Molly asked.  “Mike and I were about to get coffee, but I’m sure he’d take a rain check if you need my help.”

“Ah, yeah.  Sorry, Molly.  We’re here about the two suspicious bodies that came in overnight.”

Molly nodded thoughtfully.  “No problem!  You don’t mind postponing, do you Mike?”

Mike smiled broadly again.  “Not at all!  In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ll even come along!”

“Uh, sure.  No problem.”  Greg said.

Molly turned back around and led the way downstairs to the morgue.  Once there, Mike stood off to the side, and Molly pointed to the first corpse.  “This is the suicide.  Blood tests indicate a phosphide-based poison as the cause of death.  A little dirty, but not surprising considering that he was found in an old warehouse.  Some residue from the poison on the fingers.  The officers that brought him in said there wasn’t a note, just his mobile.”

Greg looked down at the body.  There weren’t any other marks on the body.  Nothing to indicate coercion.  The residue on the fingers did seem to indicate that he’d taken the poison himself, but something felt off to Greg.

“Did the officers take the mobile?”  He asked.

“Yes.  Is that a problem?”  Molly asked.

“No.  We’ll get it when we get back to the Yard.  That’s all we can do with this one for now.”

“Okay.”  Molly crossed the room to another body.  “Might want to brace yourself for this one.”

Molly peeled back the sheet to reveal an incredibly bruised body.

“Something’s wrong with this.”  Greg said without thinking.  “Was it the bruising that killed her?”

“The autopsy results aren’t entirely conclusive.”  Molly said.  “The bruising does seem the obvious cause of death though.  A beating like that causes internal bleeding.”

“What’s the not-obvious cause of death then?”  Greg asked.

“Drowning.”  Molly answered.

When Greg looked at her skeptically, she shrugged.  “There’s water in the lungs, but she was found in the Thames.  Whoever killed her, might have thrown the body in the Thames after beating her to death.  Or maybe the killer drowned her and threw her in the Thames to hide the cause of death.”

“But then why is she so bruised?”  Donovan asked.

“I don’t know.”  Molly said.  “There’s just something… off about her.  I want to run more labs on her blood too.  Just to be sure I’ve covered all the bases.

Greg silently agreed, but was suddenly caught on the word “labs.”

“Let us know what you find out.  We’ll need a copy of the full report for both bodies.  Also any identifying information so we can alert the families.”

“No problem!”  Molly smiled cheerily.

Donovan turned to head back to the car, and Greg waved her on ahead.  She rolled her eyes, but left anyway.

“Hey, Molly.”  Greg said.  “Can I ask you for a personal favor?”

“Sure.”  Molly looked a bit concerned, but nodded.

“Do you remember Sherlock?”  He waited for her to nod again.  “He’s… working on getting his life together.  He needs something to keep him busy.  Would you – and Mike if he wants – be willing to let him come work in the lab with you?  He’s good with experiments and really, frighteningly smart.  He could be helpful to you, and it would certainly help him.”

Molly turned and looked at Mike.  “I don’t see a problem with it.  Do you?”

Mike grinned.  “The more, the merrier.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”  Greg said sincerely and then hurried out to find Donovan.

He found her at the top of the stairs with two coffees.  She pushed one into his hand, but cut him off with a questioning look before he could mutter “thanks.”

“What?”  He asked indignantly.

“Isn’t she a bit young for you?”  Donovan questioned.

“What?!”  Greg spluttered for a few seconds before collecting his thoughts.  “First of all, I’m not that old.  Second of all, I wasn’t asking her out!  I just needed a favor.  Give me a break.”

Sally raised her eyebrows suggestively, but otherwise let the subject drop.  They walked back into the office less than half an hour later.

“I’ll track down that mobile and the reports from the beat officers who reported to the scenes.  You get back to your paperwork.  It’s almost lunchtime, and you haven’t even made a dent yet.”

Greg was unsure if he should be grateful for her help or bitter that he was being sent back to his paperwork, but in either case, she was right.  He had a lot to do to make headway on getting Sherlock in on cases and he wanted to run home for lunch.  He was sure Sherlock would appreciate the company.

Greg stopped on the way home at a café and picked up a couple sandwiches.  He carried the bag inside to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor with Greg’s laptop in front of him.

“Not hungry.”  Sherlock said without looking away from the screen.

Greg’s mouth fell open, but he recovered smoothly.  “I wasn’t going to force-feed you.  I’ll just chuck it in the fridge for later.  I see you cleaned up.  Did you manage to get anything else done?”

“Finished the experiment, cleaned up, legally registered my new consulting business, and almost finished making a website.  ‘The Science of Deduction.’  Should start bringing in clients as soon as it’s live.”

“Er, right.”  Greg crossed into the kitchen to put away Sherlock’s sandwich and get a plate for his own.  “I found something for you to do.”

“Oh, really?”  Sherlock turned away from the computer to look at Greg.

“A couple doctors – well a doctor and a medical examiner – could use some help in their labs.  On a volunteer basis.”

“A medical examiner?”  Sherlock stood gracefully.  “They need help in the morgue?”

“Maybe.  Or maybe other medical labs.”  Greg grabbed a notepad and pen from the counter as he sat down to eat.  “I thought it would be a good chance to put your medical knowledge to good use.”  He wrote down Molly and Mike’s names on a piece of paper and slid it across the table.

Sherlock looked down at the slip.  “I just ask for one of them?”

“Yup.  That should do it.”  Greg said with his mouth full of sandwich.

“As soon as the website is up and running, I’ll pay them a visit.”  Sherlock said.

He returned back to his task on the laptop, and Greg ate his sandwich in silence, wondering if Molly and Mike could handle Sherlock in their labs.  Too late to worry now.  Greg ate hastily and bade farewell to an unresponsive Sherlock.  It was time to start trying to figure out the legalities of Sherlock working for the Yard.

Without an official DI in charge of him, Greg made his way to DI Gregson’s office.  She gave him an understanding look, but otherwise wasn’t much help.  DI’s could approve consultants for individual cases, but getting one on the payroll was trickier.  She redirected him to the Human Resources Department.

HR was patently unhelpful.  The grouchy secretary told him that what he wanted was simply impossible, and that there was no point in asking anyone else.

Not to be deterred, Greg took his request up to the Detective Chief Inspector, who sent him to the Superintendent, who sent him to the legal department.

Legal also declined his request, but the bespectacled attorney peered at Greg astutely and spoke in a quiet voice.  “We can’t help you because it’s a matter of New Scotland Yard Policy.  You’ll have to talk to someone who actually has the power to change the policy.  Go to this address.”  He scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper.  “Explain your situation.  I’m not saying they’ll help you, but it’s your best bet.”

Befuddled but hopeful, Greg drove to the address and took the elevator up to room 527B.  Inside, sat a petite brunette woman behind a desk.  She was absorbed in her mobile, but as Greg entered she glanced up.  “Can I help you?”

“Yeah.  Um, one of the lawyers at New Scotland Yard sent me here about getting a consultant on contract.”

She didn’t look up again from her mobile as she replied.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can help you.”

Greg huffed, thoroughly annoyed by all the run-around.  “Are you sure?  Because I’ve already been through half a dozen offices, and no one can even tell me where to start.  I know it’s a weird request, but the kid really is a genius, and despite his stroppy attitude and all his flouncing about, tossing those ridiculous curls, he’s-“

The receptionist cut him off by pressing a button on the desk and speaking into a microphone there.  “Boss, I’ve got someone out here who needs to see you.”

A grainy voice came back through the intercom.  “This best be important.  I don’t have time to waste on another local official’s petty complaints.”

The woman looked up at Greg and studied him for a moment before pressing the button again.  “Trust me.  You want to see this one.”

She waved Greg through the door behind him.  He raised an eyebrow at her curiously, but she offered no further clues and simply returned to her mobile screen.

Greg pushed the door open into a posh office.  Behind a lavish, wooden desk sat Mycroft with a look of utter surprise on his face.  “Sergeant, Lestrade.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mycroft?  Fuck.  I’m going in circles.”  Greg collapsed haphazardly into the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk.

Appearing a touch concerned Mycroft stood and circled to the front of his desk.  Once there, however, he seemed uncertain what to do.  He vacillated for a second before leaning back on the desk in an obvious attempt at casualness.  “You’re here about getting Sherlock a contract with the Yard.”

Greg’s head rose, and he met Mycroft’s eyes.  “Yes.  Of course you already know why I’m here.  No one at the Yard can help me.  I’ve been on a wild goose chase all afternoon.”

“I could get the contract fairly easily.”  Mycroft said.

“Sherlock won’t accept your help.”  Greg reminded him.

“Perhaps Sherlock needn’t know that I’m helping.  He’ll certainly be able to deduce that you’ve been working on this problem today, and that you had to talk to several people, but your connections at the Yard are not insignificant.  I don’t think he’ll necessarily conclude that you ever came to see me.”

“Do you really have that kind of power at the Yard?  Enough to overrule their policy?”  Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled ruefully.  “Working closely with the Yard is essential to my job.  I’ve built up a certain amount of influence there over the years.  If you don’t object, then you may consider it done.”

Greg’s brow furrowed in thought.  It could work.  Sherlock could never know, but it could work.  “Alright.  It’s worth a shot.”

Mycroft looked relieved.  “I’ll have the contract sent to you in a non-attributable fashion within a week.”


	14. A Team of Two or Three

Three days after his conversation with Mycroft, Greg arrived at work to find the Superintendent standing in his office. The man was red in the face as he threw a folder onto Greg’s desk.  Hope and fear jumped in Greg’s chest. Was that Sherlock’s contract?

“I don’t know how you managed to push this through, Lestrade. Especially as you’re just a Sergeant, but if that junkie compromises a single investigation, I will put an end to it. And don’t think your job isn’t on the line too. I don’t care if the Queen herself is your personal friend; this will not hinder honest police work. Understood?”

The man continued to bristle, but Greg was fighting off a grin. Mycroft might just be more powerful than the Queen. They had really done it!

“Of course, sir. I’ll make it my personal responsibility to keep him in line.”  Greg said seriously.

The Superintendent nodded and left, leaving Greg to his thoughts. Sherlock couldn’t actually work for nearly two more months, and that was if he didn’t relapse at all. That had been Greg’s own demand, and he wasn’t about to back down on it now. Sherlock needed to be shown that he kept to his word.

In the meantime, Greg was still swamped. Gregson had pulled strings to get Donovan shifted over from drugs permanently, which helped, but Hopkins was still missing, and they were still short a DI.  With everything else settled, it was time to buckle down.

The following weeks brought mixed results. On the one hand the media hype was starting to die down.  On the other, all their leads on Hopkins had gone cold. More cases were piling up too.  Two more men had been brought in regarding the suspicious deaths of their wives, and to top it all off, there had been another funny suicide.  Every day Greg struggled against the temptation to bring Sherlock back early, which was truly a temptation because Sherlock was doing so well.

He had managed to keep his promise to stay clean so far, and his work at Bart’s hadn’t caused any major problems yet, but the truly remarkable thing was the cases. His website was attracting a steady trickle of clients, and people were actually paying Sherlock to solve mysteries for them. As far as Greg knew, he’d so far managed to find several missing possessions, reunite at least three pets with their owners, and help a very grateful Italian man off a murder charge (by proving he was committing burglary at the time of the murder).

He was, however, driving Greg absolutely crazy. Living with Sherlock was nothing short of a nightmare. Minor explosions and acid eating through furniture were fairly commonplace in Greg’s flat these days. An antique violin had materialized at some point (Greg could only hope Sherlock hadn’t stolen it), and Sherlock played at all hours of the night - sometimes beautifully and sometimes just screeches. The last straw had been when Greg had come home to find severed fingers in his fridge.

“That’s it! You have to move out!”  He shouted.

Sherlock jumped and his violin screeched. “What’s the problem?”

“Fingers! In the fridge! With our food! You need to start looking for a permanent place to live.”  Greg tried to moderate his tone.  “This won’t work forever.”  Sherlock looked surprisingly upset.

“I will devote my attention to the problem immediately. I may need some... assistance in this matter. I doubt I’ll be able to afford a flat in London on my own, even with the case income. I’ll need to find a suitable roommate.”  Sherlock said, with a look that suggested the idea was rather unpalatable.

“Yeah.”  Greg took a deep breath.  “Yeah, of course, I’ll help you look. Maybe Molly and Mike wouldn’t mind lending a hand too. You know, the more people we have looking, the better.”

Sherlock nodded once and then turned away from Greg, raising the violin to his chin and playing one of Greg’s favorite pieces - perhaps in an effort to appease him after the finger incident.

Three more days. Just three more days until the moratorium on Sherlock working with the Yard was over. Then they could get some cases solved quickly, which would finally leave time for Greg to devote to solving Sherlock’s housing problem.

Greg didn’t see Sherlock over the next three days, which didn’t strike him as particularly unusual. After all, Sherlock frequently stayed up at night and went out at all hours for cases, and Greg’s hours at work were generally long. It certainly wasn’t the first time they had missed each other in passing during their two months as roommates. Greg wasn’t concerned.

Well, he wasn’t concerned until Sherlock didn’t turn up at the Yard on the day in June when his ban lifted. Greg was certain Sherlock had been counting down the days - though he would never admit it - until he could return to the Hopkins case. Perhaps he had been distracted by another case from his blog? Perhaps he had even forgotten. Greg chuckled fondly at the prospect of reminding Sherlock that he could come back to the Yard now.

Greg left the office early and hurried home. The flat was still empty, however.

With a growing sense of worry, Greg made dinner and watched the news.  By ten o’clock, Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen, and Greg was fighting to stay calm.  Surely, Sherlock had been home sometime in the last four days, and Greg had simply failed to notice.  He wouldn’t have left without saying something to Greg.  Right?

Unless, maybe he was driven away by Greg’s temper?  No, Sherlock wasn’t scared of a little yelling.  Then what could have caused his disappearance?

Greg lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for hours before getting up to pace.  He tried desperately to avoid the thought, but it came regardless.  Relapse.  It seemed to be the perfect reason for Sherlock’s disappearance.  Even if it was the reason, though, what could Greg do?

Find him.

He had to find him, but where to start?  Vauxhall and the homeless?  Would they talk to a Scotland Yard officer when Sherlock wasn’t there?  Bart’s?  Did Molly and Mike hold some clue?  Perhaps Sally or Gregson would be willing to help.

As the morning light seeped over the horizon, Greg felt panic begin to well up in him.  Images of all the horrible things that can happen to someone homeless, high, and vulnerable over the course of 96 hours raced through his mind.  Desperate for answers, he pulled out his mobile, scrolling through the contacts, but Greg didn't have Sherlock's number.  A different name on the list caught Greg’s eye, however.

Mycroft.  Greg didn’t remember ever getting Mycroft’s number, but then when did anything concerning Mycroft happen in a normal way?

Greg thought back to his first encounter with Sherlock.  Mycroft had known he’d been arrested because he had seen it on CCTV.  If anyone knew where Sherlock was now, it was him.  Greg didn’t hesitate.  He dialed the number.

It rang twice, before the line clicked open.  The voice on the other end sounded groggy.  “Is something the matter, Sergeant?”

“Do you know where Sherlock is?”  Greg demanded.  Silence greeted his demand, and Greg flushed realizing how rude he must sound.  He opened his mouth to explain, but Mycroft cut him off.

“I thought he was with you.”  The sudden concern in Mycroft’s voice made Greg’s hair stand on end.

“No.  He hasn’t been home in four days, as far as I can tell, and he didn’t say anything to me.  I thought you monitored his movements with CCTV.”  Greg accused.

“Sherlock is very good at not being seen unless he wants to be.”  Mycroft retorted.  “If he’s been gone several days, we need to find him immediately.  I’ll pick you up in half an hour.  Be ready.”

Mycroft hung up abruptly, and Greg stood in shock for a few seconds before jolting into action.  He dressed in a hurry and went downstairs to stand by the kerb.  As he was waiting for Mycroft’s car, he wished he had thought to make some coffee.  After all, it was likely to be a long day, and he hadn’t slept all night.

The black car pulled up, and the door opened of its own accord.  Greg slid in to find Mycroft pushing a hot mug into his hands as if he had read Greg’s mind.  Greg, half delirious from lack of sleep, felt a sudden and rather confusing desire to kiss the man.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such overwhelming gratitude for a cuppa.  He stared blankly at Mycroft, but shook his head to clear it when he realized that Mycroft had already been talking for some time.

“…but I’ve already got people there.”

“What?  Sorry, I…”  Greg rambled.

Mycroft squinted at him.  “You didn’t sleep last night.  You’ve been worried for hours.  Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

Greg started to shrug, but Mycroft continued.  “Ah… you didn’t think of me as a resource.”  He looked somehow sad to Greg, but that didn’t make sense.  Surely Mycroft never suffered from anything as mundane as ‘hurt feelings.’  Lestrade wrote it off as lack of sleep.

“Anyway,” Mycroft continued, “as I was saying, Sherlock has several places to hole up in case of relapse, but I’ve already got people headed to all of them.  The problem is that Sherlock rarely uses the same place twice.  It’s a tactic designed to delay my finding him.  I have more people checking CCTV and mobile photo uploads, but it would take extreme luck to find him that way.”

“Where are we going?”  Greg interjected, suddenly realizing he was in a moving vehicle with no idea of its destination.

“Scotland Yard.  We need resources.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nearly twenty-four hours later, neither Greg nor Mycroft had slept at all.  There had been no hint of Sherlock’s whereabouts and tempers were growing shorter.

“How you managed to lose my brother from a shared two-bedroom flat, is beyond me.”  Mycroft snarled.

“You’re saying you’ve never lost track of him?  He isn’t exactly easy to pin down!  Your entire family couldn’t keep him off of drugs, or perhaps you’d forgotten!”  Greg snapped.

Mycroft looked furious for a brief second and then lowered his head.  “We can’t continue.  We won’t help Sherlock like this.”

Greg flushed at his outburst.  “Yeah, I…”  The beeping of a mobile interrupted him.  Flummoxed, Greg pulled out the device and looked down in shock.

 **My moratorium is over.  Please send all relevant case files by email.  SH** 3:21

The phone beeped again in Greg’s hand, and Mycroft said, “What is it?”

 **Hopkins, husbands, and suicides.  I want all three.  SH** 3:22

Greg started typing furiously.

 **Where the bloody hell are you?** 3:22

As Greg waited for an explanation, he looked up at Mycroft.  “He’s texting me for cases.  I don’t know whether to be relieved or angry.”

Mycroft sighed.  “That is a common conundrum with Sherlock.”

The phone beeped one last time, blinking a single word onto the screen.

 **Havana.  SH** 3:23

“He’s in Cuba.”  Greg looked down at his shaking hands.  “Mycroft, I… I can’t do this.  I can’t be Sherlock’s keeper.  At least not his only one.  I want to help him, I just…  I’m not cut out for it.”

Greg looked up in surprise when he felt Mycroft’s hands on his upper arms.

“I know.”  Mycroft said.  “I can’t do it either.”

“You know, he mentioned finding a roommate.”  Greg could see an expression of hope on his face reflected in Mycroft’s eyes.  “Maybe with one more, the three of us could handle him?”

“Then we shall have to endeavor to find a suitable person.”  Mycroft said, barely above a whisper.

Greg leaned in to hear, and Mycroft leaned in and kissed him.

Greg closed his eyes and pressed in, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and basking in relief.  He desperately wanted to stay in the sudden and comforting bubble of warmth and silence, but just as Mycroft tentatively pushed further into the kiss, Greg’s phone rang. 

Greg jerked back from the kiss like a teenager caught by his parents.  He yanked out the phone and answered expecting to hear Sherlock’s voice, so he was momentarily caught off guard by Sally speaking from the other end.

“Boss, I know it’s early, but there’s been another suicide.  Same as the first two.  Chief wants a press conference.  We all need to come in to get ready as soon as possible.”

Just thinking about the day ahead made Greg’s knees shake.  He hadn’t slept in two days, and today was looking no better.  “I’m already in.  Just wake me up when you get here; I need a quick nap.”

An odd pause followed as Sally surely tried to figure out why Greg was already at the office, but to her credit she didn’t ask.  “Will do, Lestrade.”

Greg hung up and looked up awkwardly.  “I, umm…”

“Need to work.”  Mycroft finished for him, looking embarrassed.  “Of course, I understand.  Thank you for your help locating Sherlock, and do please tell him to call me when he gets a chance.”

“Right, yeah.”  Greg said, walking over to his desk and fumbling with some papers.  “I’ll do that.”

Greg turned, but Mycroft was already gone.


	15. Catching Killers

“Do you want to explain to me what exactly you were doing in Cuba, Sherlock?”  Greg half shouted.  Greg knew better than to yell at Sherlock.  He desperately needed his help to get his head above water, but he couldn’t seem to help it every time he thought back over the last two days.  He was running on precious little sleep still.  The press conference the previous morning had gone disastrously (no thanks to Sherlock’s inputs), which only meant more paperwork and PR labor the rest of the day and that the nap that Greg had been frantically hoping for was not to be.

Greg had collapsed into bed early, but his nervous system, stretched to breaking over the last few days, would not calm down.  Rather than getting the 12 hours of sleep he deserved, Greg had laid in bed staring at the ceiling and thinking.  Thinking about how angry he was at Sherlock.  About how relieved he was the kid was alive.  Thinking about suicides and murders.  Thinking about where Hopkins might be.

And thinking about the fact that Mycroft Holmes had kissed him.

He had kissed him right?  Greg hadn’t hallucinated it?  Lack of sleep can cause hallucinations.

But no, Greg could still feel it.  Warm and gentle and… What was going on?  Mycroft never did anything without a solid motive.  What could possibly motivate him to kiss Greg?

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be anything good.  Knowing it would be impossible to actually extricate himself, Greg had resolved not to get any more tangled up with Mycroft Holmes than he already was.

Sleep had come well past midnight.  And today had been another early morning.  Still, at least he’d had a few hours of sleep before having to have this particular conversation with Sherlock.

Sherlock’s calm demeanor as he sat in the chair across from Greg’s desk wasn’t helping Greg keep his cool.

“Oh, calm down, Lestrade.  I went for a case.  The woman paid for the flight and everything.  She just needed me to make sure her husband was convicted of running the drug cartel shipping heroine from Havana to Miami.  It was quite easy really.  All I had to do was go to the warehouse and look in the basement for-“

“And was he?”  Greg asked.

“Was he what?”

“Running a drug cartel?”

“Oh, yes.  Of course.  No fun in failing to prove the truth.”  Sherlock said.

“So she must be rather upset then?  She pays for you to help her husband and you get him convicted.”

“What?  No!  She wanted him convicted.  Quite an arsehole.  Have you been listening to anything I’ve said at all, Lestrade?”

Greg sighed.  “Ok.  You went for a case.  That’s fine.  Just next time, tell someone before you leave the country, yeah?”

Sherlock tilted his head as though he found it an odd request, but shrugged.  “If you want.  It’s all working out though really, because she offered to rent me an apartment in the house she owns.  Prime location.  Baker Street.  I’ll still need a roommate even with the discount, but I asked Mike to help me look.  People like him, and he owes me a favor.”

“A favor?”  Greg asked.

“Yes, I diagnosed one of his more difficult patients for him.  Saved everyone a lot of time.”

Greg made a mental note to ask Mike to keep him updated on the roommate search.

“So.  Cases.”  Sherlock leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his nose.

“I sent you the files.  You tell me.”  Greg said.

“Well, the suicides aren’t suicides.  Someone is murdering them, but they are connected.  On that much we can agree.”  Sherlock said.

“How?”

“Not enough information to theorize yet.  I’ll need to see the bodies.  And the crime scenes if they’re still available.”

“They aren’t.  And the bodies have all been released to the families; we can’t keep suicides.  I’ll call you if we get anything new.  And Hopkins?”  Greg asked.

“Hopkins’ trail is cold.  If you’d given me the case two months ago…”

“Stop it.  This isn’t my fault.  Go back.  Follow the trail.  Think of it as a challenge.”

Sherlock glared momentarily.  “Fine.  But it will take me a while to get anything useful.”  Sherlock stood suddenly and began to pace.  “The three women murdered by their husbands though… on that I have something for you now.”

“I’m listening.”  Greg leaned forward onto his elbows.

“Molly labeled all three causes of death as ‘inconclusive.’  A less competent medical examiner would have cited trauma due to the bruising and moved on.  Molly, however, noticed something odd.  Burst capillaries in the face indicate asphyxiation… or drowning.  It’s far easier to drown someone to death than to beat them to death.  At least without a weapon.  The pattern of bruising on all three indicates it was done by fists alone, but something about it is off.  I expect it was done post-mortem, not peri-mortem.”

“So why beat them at all?”  Lestrade asked, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to Lestrade.  “To implicate the husbands.  A wife dying at the hands of her abusive husband is hardly uncommon, even three so close together wouldn’t necessarily set off alarm bells.  Three drowned wives though?  That’s a serial killer, not a husband.  I’ll need to check that the bruising patterns can be made post-mortem and that they aren’t the result of a weapon, but Molly should be able to procure a body or two for the experiment.  Those bodies are still in the morgue, correct?”

“Yes.  I’ll call ahead and tell Bart’s you can examine them.”

“Perfect.”  Sherlock returned to his chair and pulled the case files from Greg’s desk into his lap.  Flipping through them, he continued.  “The case files indicate that a window was broken in all three flats.  Presumably how the killer got in.  How did that not raise suspicion with the police?”

“It did.”  Greg said.  “But other things were broken too.  Things get broken in domestic violence incidents.  Besides the latest victim was killed in a second story flat.  How do you explain the killer getting in through that window?”

“A ladder.”  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “Are you always this stupid?”

“Get out.  Examine the bodies.  Find the killer.  I have other things to work on.”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg spent the afternoon barely able to focus.  He alternated between trying to find a speck of evidence that the suicides were really murders and trying to find Hopkins’ long lost trail.  He was staring blankly at one of the case files when his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

 **If brother has green ladder, arrest brother.  SH** 3:52

Lestrade glared at the phone.  Whose brother?  Whatever.  It could wait.  It was time to call it a day.

Lestrade trudged home and collapsed on the couch, falling asleep immediately.

He was awoken unpleasantly a few hours later - from a very odd dream in which Mycroft was kissing him again while Sherlock glared - by a knock on the door.  He rolled off the couch, still in his now wrinkled work clothes, to answer the door.

“Sherlock?”

“I need to talk to the husbands.”  Typical.  No ‘hello,’ no preamble, just straight to business.

“We released them.  You said they weren’t guilty.”  Greg said.

“They aren’t guilty.  But I’m missing something.”  Sherlock elbowed past Greg into the flat.  “I can feel it, but I can’t see it yet.  I need to talk to them.”

“You think they might know something?”  Greg asked.

Sherlock snorted.  “Those three idiots didn’t even know their wives were cheating on them.  They don’t have a clue who the killer-”  Sherlock froze as if in shock.  “Adulterers.”

“What?”

“The three women, Lestrade.  They were all adulterers.”

“A good motive for the husbands to kill them.”  Greg pointed out.

“Yes, but it wasn’t the husbands.  The post-mortem bruising experiments proved that much.  Not to mention the green paint from the ladder.  I was wrong.  It wasn't the brother, but...”

Greg wasn’t entirely sure he was following Sherlock this time, but he had made a compelling argument for these deaths being the work of a serial killer earlier.  A serial killer.  Oh.  Oh God.  “Hopkins.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock answered.  “Killing adulterers this time, but it’s the same M.O.  All we need to do to get to him is to find his proxy.”

“Where do we even start?”  Greg asked.

“We start with what we know.”  Sherlock pulled out his phone and started scrolling, presumably looking through the case file.  “Evidence suggests all three women were killed at home, in their bathtubs.  The killer came in through the window.  The husbands weren’t home.  Which means…”

“The killer had to know when the husbands wouldn’t be home.”  Greg said.

“Exactly.  Husbands’ were all out for different reasons.  An A&E doctor on shift, a bartender working, and a businessman at a client dinner.  How did the killer find out all their schedules?  How would the police do it?”

“You mean if we wanted to arrest someone at home?  Monitoring normal schedules will usually do it, but none of those professions tend to work 9 to 5.  With something like this it would be easier to call the neighbors or friends.”

“We need to go to the Yard.”  Sherlock declared.

“What?  Why?”

“I need to look something up.”  Sherlock spun on the spot and disappeared out the door.  Greg rushed to follow.

By the time they walked into Greg’s office, Greg couldn’t hold in his questions any longer.  “What are we looking up, Sherlock?”

“You said you’d talk to the neighbors.  I want to know if any of the neighbors reported anything suspicious in the days leading up to the three deaths.  Break-ins, phone calls, peeping Toms, even annoying missionaries.”

Greg pulled out the case file and started finding addresses for Sherlock to query.

“Interesting.”  Sherlock said.

“What is?”  Greg asked.

“None of the neighbors reported a break-in or anything else suspicious…”

“But?”  Greg asked.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped away from the computer and onto Greg.  “But at least one neighbor in every case had been investigated or questioned by the Yard in the week before the murder.  This is an inside job.  One of the Yard’s officers was the one casing the area.”

“Which officer?”  Greg asked, dreading the answer.

“A Sergeant Tuson.  Does the Yard keep officers’ fingerprints on file?”

“Yes.”  Greg answered.  “Bring the ones from the crime scenes.”

Greg dug Tuson’s file out of one of the enormous cabinets in the storage room.  He held up the crime scene prints to compare.  It was clear.  Tuson was their guy.

Greg sighed.  “I need to run this by Gregson before we make an arrest.  Then we’ll need to talk to Tuson.  Hopefully, he knows where Hopkins is.”

Despite Greg’s suggestion that Sherlock stay in his office, Sherlock tagged along behind Greg on the way to find Gregson.  She was sitting at her desk even though it was well after dinner time, and she looked up in surprise at Greg.  Greg explained the situation curtly.

Gregson buried her face in her hands momentarily.  “This is going to be some bad PR, Lestrade.  Especially if it doesn’t lead to Hopkins’ capture.”

Greg nodded.  “I know.  But what can we do?”

Gregson paused and tilted her head at him.  “What if we don’t arrest Tuson?”

“What?  We can’t just-“

“No, hear me out, Lestrade.”  She said.  “We wait till he next meets with Hopkins and follow him.  That way we get both of them.”

“What if they aren’t communicating in person?”  Greg asked.

Sherlock stepped forward.  “Hopkins learned his lesson about the insecurity of telephone communications the hard way already.  He isn’t likely to try it again.  She’s right, Lestrade.  It’s a good plan.”

Greg looked between the two of them.  Since when did they agree on anything?  “Ok.  But Tuson needs to be monitored starting now.  He doesn’t kill anyone else.”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg finally got a good night’s sleep that night.  The next morning, he got up late, feeling like a new person.  He showered and ate breakfast leisurely, enjoying the odd moment of calm.

At 11am, his phone rang.

“Tuson's moving.”  Gregson quickly gave Greg the address.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.  I just need to get a hold of Sherlock first.  He’s earned the right to see this.”

“He’s already here, Lestrade.  Been driving Donovan nutty all morning.”  Gregson said.

“Oh God.”  Greg groaned.  Sally would give him hell for that later, but there was nothing he could do now.

He hung up and hurried to the address Gregson had specified.  It turned out to be a shopping mall in North London.  Greg met the team and Sherlock in a security office where they were watching Tuson on CCTV.  Tuson slipped into one of the fitting rooms, and a few minutes later, the red head of Hopkins followed.

“Let’s go.”  Greg said.

They reached the fitting room just as Hopkins and Tuson were leaving.  Tuson and Hopkins glanced at each other and then split in opposite directions.

As if they’d choreographed it, Donovan and Gregson took off after Tuson, and Greg and Sherlock sprinted after Hopkins.  Greg flew down the mall, dodging shoppers and baby carriages with Sherlock on his heels.  Abruptly, Sherlock veered left, through an emergency exit and vanished.  Fire alarms blared and lights flashed from Sherlock opening the door.  Shoppers screamed and panicked, but Greg raced on. 

He was right on Hopkins’ tail when Hopkins ran through the exit, disappearing into the stampeding crowd.  Greg hurried through the doors, pushing through the people.  He expected Hopkins to be gone when he emerged from the group, but to his great surprise, he found a very angry looking Hopkins being straddled by a smug looking Sherlock.

“Shortcut.”  Sherlock said.

Greg started laughing, but still walked forward and handcuffed Hopkins.

Two police cruisers with flashing lights pulled up to the kerb.  Donovan and Gregson got out, along with a couple other officers, leaving an obviously restrained Tuson in the back seat of one.

“Good work, boss.”  Donovan commented as she took control of Hopkins.

Gregson walked up to Greg. 

“Good work chasing down Tuson.  It’s nice to know our DIs can still run down criminals.”  Greg said.

Gregson smiled.  “You didn’t do so badly yourself.”  Her smile faltered and she sighed.  “It’s been a long year, hasn’t it, Lestrade?”

“Understatement of the century.”  Greg laughed.

A twinkle returned to Gregson’s eyes.  “You know, I’m not supposed to tell you this yet, but I think you deserve to hear it after today.”

“What’s that?”  He asked.

“They’ve stopped looking for a new DI for homicide.”  She said.

“I don’t understand.  Without a DI, the homicide division will drown!”

Gregson laughed.  “No, Lestrade.  They’re promoting you!”


	16. The DI and the Consulting Detective

Greg managed to get two meals and a nap in after Hopkins’ arrest and before his phone rang again.  No less than the Chief of New Scotland Yard was on the other end of the line.

“Lestrade.  There’s been another suicide.  We needed this solved yesterday.  You’re in charge.  Do whatever you need to, but get it done.”

“Yes, sir.  I’m on it.”  Greg said, grabbing his keys and heading for the door.

Greg texted Sherlock for his location.  Baker Street.  Odd.  He started to knock on the door to number 221 twenty minutes later, but the door pushed open as soon as his knuckles made contact.  Looking around cautiously, Greg proceeded up the stairs to apartment B.  The door to the flat was wide open as well, but Greg barely made it through the door before Sherlock turned.

“Where?”  He asked.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”  Greg answered, trying not to be phased that Sherlock already knew why he was there.

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

Greg tried not to roll his eyes.  Sherlock was already interested in this case, but Greg was going to have to persuade him to come anyway it seemed.  “You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”  Sherlock said.

“This one did. Will you come?”  Greg hoped the desperation wasn’t evident in his voice.

“Who’s on forensics?”

“It’s Anderson.”  Greg admitted.

“Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

“I  _need_  an assistant.”  Sherlock whined.

“Will you come?”  Greg knew it sounded like he was pleading the second time, but there was nothing else for it.  He needed Sherlock.  As usual.

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you.”  Greg looked around the room and was momentarily confused.  Some of Sherlock’s more unique belongings seemed to have been moved in.  This must be the apartment Sherlock mentioned then, and the older lady must be Mrs. Hudson.

The other gentleman in the room – shorter, grey hair – was a mystery to Greg however.  Who was he?  Sherlock’s new roommate?  Where did Sherlock find him?  And why in God’s name had he agreed to live with Sherlock?  Surely, he didn’t know about Sherlock’s… idiosyncrasies yet.

Greg suddenly realized that he was staring awkwardly and quickly turned to head to the crime scene.

Greg pulled his phone from his pocket before he even reached his car.  He quickly dialed Mike.

"Greg, so good to hear from you.  I imagine you're calling about Sherlock's new roommate."  Mike said.

Greg laughed.  "Yeah, how did you know?"

"Lucky guess."  Mike chuckled.  "I'm afraid I can't chat now, but don't worry.  John Watson's a great man.  I went to med school with him.  He's a bit mad, likes a bit of chaos in his life, but somehow I imagine that will suit Sherlock just fine."

Greg wondered exactly what that meant, but decided to let it go for now.  "Ok, thanks, Mike.  I'll let you get back to work."

Greg hung up and thumbed through his contacts to Mycroft's name, but then hesitated over it.  He hadn't spoken to Mycroft since the kiss the other day, and he wasn't sure where they stood.  How awkward was it going to be to talk to the man?  Worse still, would Mycroft be able to tell just how much time Greg had spent thinking about him in the interim?  Greg flushed red at the thought and started to pocket his phone.

Best not to bother the man.  After all, the kiss had been born out of exhaustion.  Greg knew all too well that sleeplessness was a lot like drunkenness.  Chalk it up to lowered inhibitions and a momentary lapse of judgement, and it was clear that Mycroft never would have ordinarily acted on such a whim.

But then again, could it really be called a whim if the thought had occurred to Greg more than once and had stayed with him since then?  He and Mycroft did have a surprising amount in common.  And regardless, Greg had promised to keep him updated on Sherlock's roommate situation.

Grinning in spite of himself, Greg retrieved his phone from his pocket and dialed Mycroft.

"Sergeant?  Or should I say Detective Inspector?"  Mycroft answered.

"Word travels fast, I see."  Greg's grin broadened.  "Speaking of which, did you know Sherlock moved?"

"I had heard a rumour to that effect, but I have not quite ascertained how he came by enough money."

"He's found a roommate."  Greg announced.

"Really?"  Mycroft sounded surprised.

Reveling for a moment in knowing something that Mycroft Holmes did not, Greg continued.  "Yeah, an older bloke, probably closer to my age than Sherlock's.  Name of John Watson.  Studied medicine at Bart's."

"Interesting."  Mycroft passed muffled instructions to someone on the other end of the phone before continuing.  "I can't tell you how greatly I appreciate this information."  Mycroft paused again.  "I... perhaps we can... if you'd like, sometime I should buy you a drink?  To thank you for your help with Sherlock and celebrate your promotion.  Would you be amenable to that?"

Greg froze in his effort to dig his keys out of his pocket.  That sounded a lot like a date.  Oh God, what would a date with Mycroft be like?

Before Greg could think too deeply about it, he answered.  "Yeah, err, that sounds great.  I've got to run now though.  Crime scene and all that."

 "Of course.  I'll be in touch."

Greg hung up and hurried to the latest crime scene.  He had just pulled on his blue sterile suit when Sherlock arrived.  To Greg's very great surprise, however, Sherlock wasn't alone.  John Watson was there too, limping along behind Sherlock with a cane.

Sherlock insisted that Watson be allowed onto the scene and even asked for his medical opinion on the victim.  John, for his part was the perfect spectator to Sherlock's show.  He didn't get offended by Sherlock's rudeness and he praised his genius openly.  Strangely, Sherlock seemed determined to be on his best behavior in front of John.  He even noticed when he had said something not good.  In true Sherlock fashion though, Watson was quickly forgotten when Sherlock had an epiphany about the case.

Yelling about a suitcase, Sherlock vanished into the night, and Greg was left chasing after both Sherlock and the apparently missing evidence.

When Sherlock didn't materialize outside, Lestrade in frustration marched back into the building.  Sherlock would find the suitcase within the hour, of that much Lestrade was sure.  He just needed to convince Sherlock to give it to him without an argument.  It would have been easy to find if Sherlock still lived with him, but now he needed a way into Baker Street.  Looking around the room at the put-out faces of the rest of the team, an idea occurred to Lestrade.

"Anyone want to annoy Sherlock Holmes?"

 

* * *

 

Lestrade found himself back in 221B within an hour, this time waiting for Sherlock and pretending to search for drugs (and secretly praying there were none to find).  Sherlock and John arrived looking flushed with excitement.  John was strangely non longer limping, but simply carrying his cane.

At Sherlock's instruction they moved from looking for the suitcase to using GPS to track the victim's phone, and with it their killer.  Sherlock was at his best, making frantic deductions and moving from one conclusion to the next with all the agility of a gymnast, when suddenly, they hit a dead end.  The phone's signal was resonating from within 221B itself.  

Greg shouted for the team to start looking for it and turned to help for himself.  When he looked up, Sherlock was gone.

Greg looked at John.  "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?”

"You know him better than I do."  John responded.

"I've known him for over a year and no, I don't."  Greg grumbled, thoroughly annoyed that he was going to have to chase Sherlock down again.

“So why do you put up with him?”  John asked.

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why.”  Greg started to walk away, but stopped and turned back.  “And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

Greg left Baker Street and headed to his car.  He'd have to patrol the streets.  He'd call Mycroft only if he couldn't find Sherlock himself.

After a while, voices on the police radio suddenly announced gun shots heard in one of the Roland-Kerr College buildings.  Greg immediately turned to head in that direction, terrified that he was going to once again find Sherlock dead.

When he arrived, other officers were already cordoning off the scene.  

"What happened?"  Greg asked one of the junior officers, jumping out of his car.

"Someone shot the suicide killer, sir."  The young man reported.

"Sherlock shot him?"  Greg asked.

"No, sir.  We don't know yet who did it.  Sherlock was there, but he wasn't armed.  Someone shot him from the other building.  Great shot, really.  It'll be a shame to have to arrest him."

Greg caught sight of Sherlock at that moment.  He was being ushered out of the crime scene by a paramedic, but he looked unhurt.  The paramedic draped a bright orange blanket over his shoulders.  

Sally approached Greg and sighed.  "We should at least get to take pictures of him with the shock blanket for all the trouble this has been."

"Trouble?"  Greg questioned, appalled.  "Donovan, he solved the case!"

"True, but he did it in the most annoying way possible."  Sally looked at Greg's annoyed face and sighed again.  "I'm not sure why you're so fond of him, sir, but he did solve it, and we're all safer for that.  Still, he's an arse, and I'm not going to go thank him, so you'd best go do it yourself."

Greg shook his head, but smiled.  Even that was high praise from Sally.  He headed over to Sherlock who was pouting badly.

Sherlock gestured to the blanket.  "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it’s for shock."  Greg said.

"I’m not in shock."

Greg struggled to hold back a laugh.  "Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but..."  Greg shrugged.  "... got nothing to go on."

Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of impatience and amusement.  "Oh, I wouldn’t say that."

Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation.  "Okay, give it to me."

Sherlock stood.  "The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service..."  Sherlock's voice faded a bit and his eyes turned glassy as he looked across the lot.  "...and nerves of steel..."

Greg turned to follow Sherlock's gaze, but didn't see anyone there other than John.  Sherlock abruptly turned back to him and continued talking.  "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

Of all the things that Greg never expected to hear out of Sherlock's mouth, that was the first.  "Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that. It’s just the, err, the shock talking."  Sherlock started walking away quickly.

Greg followed a few paces.  "Where’re you going?"

"I just need to talk about the... the rent."

"But I’ve still got questions for you."  Greg said, slightly desperate.

Sherlock turned back to him, obviously annoyed.  "Oh, what now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!"  He waved the edges of the blanket around petulantly.

"Sherlock!"  Greg complained, well and truly annoyed now.

"And I just caught you a serial killer ... more or less."  Sherlock said, bargaining for his freedom from questions.

Still suspicious, Greg looked at him.  Sherlock was right, he had done a lot today and he deserved a break.  Knowing that there would be time to sort it all out in the coming days, Greg yielded.  "Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Greg watched Sherlock throw the blanket through the open window of a police car and couldn't help but roll his eyes again.  Sherlock approached John and they shared a few words before Mycroft materialized to speak with them.  Greg was suddenly nervous.  He contemplated trying to disappear, but Mycroft stayed with them only a moment before turning and striding toward Greg.

"Forgive me for intruding into your business, Detective Inspector."

Suddenly finding the whole situation absurdly funny, Greg smiled.  "Not at all, Mister Holmes."

Mycroft blushed at the odd formality and seemed at a loss for words.

Greg decided to help him.  "Perhaps we could get that drink now, Myc."

It was Greg's turn to blush at the pleased and surprised look on Mycroft's face.

"It would an honor, Gregory.  I know just the place."  Mycroft said.

They walked about three blocks while Greg wondered where they were going and whether this was a date.  He spotted a pub down the street and assumed that it would be their destination, but before they quite reached it, Mycroft grabbed his arm and pulled him into a small alley.  Greg looked up at him in confusion.

"You're quite correct that the pub is our destination, but... well, you'll have to forgive me.  I've been thinking about this for a while, and I just couldn't wait any longer."

And with that, Mycroft kissed him soundly.  Relief and giddiness flooded Greg.  Mycroft backed him gently into the wall, and Greg wondered if they would ever actually make it into the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my goal for this one was 10 chapters and 20,000 words. I went a bit over that, but I'm happy with it overall. Thank you everyone for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I've got a few new ideas, but no promises on the time frame for my next work going up. 
> 
> Special thanks to Ariane DeVere for her Study in Pink transcript (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html) without which this chapter - and honestly most of this story - would not have been possible.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback of any type is always appreciated! :)


End file.
